


dig me a boneyard in a field of daffodils

by 07JoeTheBastardo



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Amnesia, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, God Complex, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I just really love reading your comments, I wonder where Dream is, Literally its on my name, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Magic, Memory Alteration, Mild Gore, Platonic Soulmates, Why? because I'm a bastard, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, get ready for some bad editing, god AU, please comment, they are best friends your honor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/07JoeTheBastardo/pseuds/07JoeTheBastardo
Summary: Tommy lives halfway, in a sense. Loud booming laughter whenever the spotlight dances on him, yet halfway conscious, halfway aware when he closes his door and dreams of another life with another name.Oh well, he quickly forgets about it as he brushes his teeth anyway.aka a god au that no one asked for.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 186
Kudos: 487





	1. a crouching, wounded fawn that knew no god

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Godling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29010087) by [Jk_Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jk_Kat/pseuds/Jk_Kat). 
  * Inspired by [the pantheon, broken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625817) by [stareintospace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stareintospace/pseuds/stareintospace). 



> i swear that i will finish this, i swear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy hates small spaces, it reminds him of weird dreams and even weirder voices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear that i will finish this, i swear

1.

Tommy hates the crawl space between the wooden flooring and the plastic wrap on the roof.

On the week leading to Christmas, he would get on his knees on the dusty later ladder and crawl on all fours to reach a cardboard box with faded sharpy letters _CHRISTMAS_ , careless and sloping downwards. The dust bunnies would cling to his exposed socks and jeans, and his heart would go as fast as a hare running from wolves. There's something wrong with the vibe there, he tries to warn them, something rotten and bad. Tommy hates the tight space that makes his shoulders touch the cold pipes, and force him to hunch his spine. Hates how tight his chest twisted, a heavy cold hand would press on his back and _push_ him down. 

He was just eight the first, and last time, he was forced to go and fetch the Christmas lights. There's rushing blood flowing down his ears, and his heart beats like a drummer boy lost on the battlefield. _Inhale, exhale, contagious_. The fear is contagious. The world stopped moving but the moment is still gone too quickly and Tommy is left gasping and heaving, trying to hold on to the ability to breathe. He can feel his hand brushing against something and for the first time in his short existence, he knows what it means to be truly terrified.

Because he can see it behind his closed eyelids— the black of his insides and the white in every pain nerve, every fiber, every collagen molecule has been drenched in gasoline and someone dropped a burning match. Guts are loops of rubber tubing and battery acid rage through his lower intestines. He is too aware of the bones of his skull, of his teeth rooted in his head— aware of them because they burned. They hurt because you are falling and falling and _you know_ there is no one to catch down the bottom.

And just like that, it's gone.

The only watermakers left behind were the gasping for air and tears down his cheeks in ransack of the random episode. Clara ran her fingers through his locks whispering encouragement _you are a strong, space boy. You are safe here_ , and Tommy could only do so much. She murmured apologizes after apologizing into his hair that smelled like coconut because he liked the packaging so much that he begged her to get it for him.

But then he snapped himself out of it, he's a big man after all. There ain't much that can get the great Tommy Innit down!

So he shakes away the bad juju energy, he hears that come from the tv one Sunday morning and thinks happy thoughts. He thinks of Clementine and her strange bug obsession, Clara's odd trinkets on the bookshelves from her time in the UK Space Agency, and he thinks of trees and benches. It's enough to distract him and he finds himself back together like nothing ever happened.

That night little Tommy dreams of meeting an angel. Her hair is woven from strands of sunlight, cosmos of freckles dotting her skin. Her laugh will ring of wind chimes and birdsong and children’s glee. Her porcelain fingers trace over your veins and tickle your sides, and the way rose-petal lips blow raspberries into your neck. She is woven of feathers and sunshine and stardust.

_“Remember.”_

_Her voice is calm, familiar. It settles onto your skin and lies there until it sinks inside you as surely as the needles push through the muscles of your upper body, your ribs, your thighs, your calves, your neck. You can’t move as first responders slide each needle one by one or dozens by dozens into the meat of your body, long burning lines of heat sitting inside you, the plungers not yet pushed. It hurts, but you don’t make a sound other than to breathe a little faster. You’re scared. You are scared. You don’t want to do this, you’re not ready for what comes next._

_“When you wake up, the stars will be placed in your feet and you can choose which planet you want because you are loved.”_

_—and the universe said I love you._

When he comes around, there are doctors and nurses in and out of the room. There are police officers too, uniform colors sharply contrasting to the baby blue color of the walls and soft pillows. This is nice, you think. They ask questions and prod for any information on why there was a skinny kid on the side of the road with nothing but a sheet and blood on his hands and head. The side glance at your unscarred and clean hair and they grimace. As he grows older and begins to understand the world, he winces.

They most likely thought he was kidnapped or trafficked, not he remembers any of it anyway.

But when he does remember something of his past, it's mostly the vague dreams that hint at something else. He hates his dreams. He really does. Because whenever he manages to remember something, anything, something bad will always happen to him. Clara, the sweet girl with music in her teeth, got her leg mangled in her internship, crushing whatever future she had of reaching the stars. He ignores the whispers after that, ones of falsehoods and of self proclaim the love of the universe. It's easier to deal with everything that way. 

It's easier, you say. Because he no longer takes pills or sees a person across you take notes. Clara is happier than she was before, and she whispers _you hold the stars in your eyes, why would I want to go up in the sky when I have you on my side?_ And that's when Tommy, age seven, learns what love is. Love is blind language, and Tommy isn’t wise enough to sign through it but he rather takes what he can and shoves it onto people. Tommy signs it with school work with golden stars on them and withholds punches against other mean students. He brings Clementine months and butterflies he finds at the park because she loves to put them under a microscope and draw the endless patterns she saw. 

And for love, he ignores the voices and the bad dreams, and eventually, they forget him too.

It brings him all the way to today, Tommy age sixteen, is now with his head down listening to whatever his AirPods are blasting and somehow thinks about everything and nothing. Weirdly, he can recall being so fucking surprised when he first saw Clementine. Her eyes are gray. Her skin is dark and pitted by imperfections, the lights causing shadows to catch in the dips and sinks in her complexion. She is the first human face he's seen, and he was awestruck, finding her mesmerizing. Tommy studied the shape of her mouth as she said something in another language, something unfamiliar. Tracking the small movements of her irises as she examines his face in the light. He doesn’t know why he became so attached to her, something about her eyes just seemed too familiar at the time. 

She is still working at the hospital he was brought in, weirdly enough. 

But right now, he doesn’t focus on that, he continues to scroll through Twitter and keep his streak on Snapchat (he really does his best to keep it consistent, it's fucken hard) and never even feels the distant whispers of a love of the stars or weeping angels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I know, I know. I WILL finish the other unfinished stories, I swear! I was just strolling through my bookmarks and thought "huh, I have a lot of god aus for some reason" and then I kept reading more, and more and more. And now? I am so deep into this, that I acted out on impulse and snatched my Samsung notes up and wrote down the plot right there and then. I haven't given up on my other stories!!!!!! I swear!!!! The next chapter should be up before this!!
> 
> And yes! Clara and Clementine are lesbians who care very deeply! WHY? Because I said so! I am god here and no one can curb my ego.


	2. but what good is petrichor when it's your body that rots beneath the dust?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo was always told about his other half, a boy too loud for his own good and too full of light. Tubbo doesn't know if that makes him a ruined person for not being at his side, as faceless and distant as they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to mention the poem. it's by fray narte

2.

Tubbo used to hear a lot of stories about his other half.

He is like the sky when the wind blows their trumpets and the clouds part way, and he was the reigning sun. Too loud for his own good, always up to mischief. When he laughed the angles sang, and when he cried, tornadoes warped the earth. And when Tubbo was younger and none the wiser, he thought his other half was like the color baby blue. Untouched, and unmoving in the face of adversity, yet a far-reaching figure. There's a fog of confusion that clouded his little mind as he pulls away from his father and drifts in the meadows or to the forest, away from the worried looks of other gods. Always looking and always searching for the other half.

 _If he is his other half_ , he asks his father, _then where is he?_

His father used to flinch, drawing him close to his chest, and bowing his head. Tubbo was small and young back then, but now he thinks it was a mercy to not see the raw emotion on his father's face when he asked the dreaded question.

_Away. Missing._

Tubbo couldn't comprehend that. He was his other half! There is no way he couldn't find him! So he nodded to his father, and later that afternoon with his tiny fist grabbing a fistful of berries and crackers and stuffing them on his pockets, he made his way out of the castle. He made sure to grab double just in case his other half got hungry of course.

So, with the determination of a hardened adventurer, he left his father's side and walked down the paths. He looks under fallen tree logs, exposing their rotten underbelly to find worms and bugs. He climbs the apple orchards and finds blooming flowers and bees bumbling around. He skits around the rock boulders, playing peek a boo with his shadow. Tubbo goes on like this for hours, stopping to rest his aching little feet and munching on the mushed fruit that now stained the inside of his pockets.

His father finds him like that, on his knees on the mud and hands reaching down a poor rabbit's hole. His hair is ruffled and poking at random directions, and his soft hands are stained with green, and dirt. 

"What are you doing, kiddo?" Little Tubbo shot up from the ground faster than his father was expecting. He grinned up, pearl whites beaming with innocence yet hands hid behind his back as if he wasn't sticking his hands down some dirt hole.

"I'm searching!"

His father was confused, he can remember, tilting his head and his smile straining with concentration. The realization hit like a falling tree, silent at first yet when the first leaf falls there is no stopping it, tumbling down it goes. His eyes were stuck wide, color leaving him. And like the tree, his father fell to his knees, mud staining his white robes as he grips his shoulder too small for a six-year-old. 

"Tubbo— _Tubbo_ , listen to me. Were you looking for Theseus?" Little Tubbo doesn't know why his father's eyes were so wide, or his knuckles so white. There was a shift in the air, a sensing doom. Tubbo was taught to never lie, for those are for silver tongues that promised falsehoods and lead you the wrong path.

"Yep!"

His father was heartbroken, showing his real face to him for the first time. There's a vivid moment suspended in time, as Tubbo stops breathing in that second.

"Don't. You are too young to even know the guy, alright? Tubbo, _look at me_ and promise me you will stop this," Little Tubbo with one pocket stained red from berries, and another full of empty promises. He looks at his father, and then to himself, feels the shifting feeling inside him will always grow restless, and there is no stopping the inevitable. Right there and then, he turns away from the premeditated path made by his father, and turns to the one that whispered falsehood and promises.

Tubbo smiles wide as the sky nods with innocence. "Okay, dad."

He lies.

He doesn't know who his other half is. Well, that's another lie, there's a dirty little secret that clutches his chest tighter than anything else. They say he was too young to remember Theseus, yet he _does_ remember. 

He remembers— 

They were lying in a field of daffodils, yellow painting the strong blue and white of the clouds. Green permeated the air, and he was gasping for breath. There was laughter on his right, and lying there was Theseus. His face was blocked by a daffodil, but he could see his chest fall and rise with each gasping intake. There's the shrieking laughter ringing in his ears and the ache in his cheeks from smiling too much. He lies in the flowers still as a corpse and all he feels and sees is gold. Theseus was made of gold. 

They are holding hands, tiny fists clutching to each other in the field of daffodils and he thinks blue. Blue is the cold of his hands when he holds them in his. Blue is his lips when he sees him leave. Blue is his heart as he watches his head turn away and his fine hair fan-out in the air, and blue is when he blinks and Theseus is gone.

Aether is not a kind place to be, at least for the older Gods. Colors were saturated for some, yet there was a paucity in the air. After his false promise to his father, Tubbo began to drift. He is still present in the room, yet his eyes wander to a corner and he hides in the blue of his mind. The non-stop thumping of _something_ is at the back of his head. He's blind to worry whispers and anxious glances.

He's seven when he receives a gift from Wilbur, God of Music and poetry. It's a compass, made from the steels of the lush mines, and glass forged with lighting and a little red arrow spinning wildly. It's enough to snap it out of his corner, and he feels the gold take the place of blue. Tubbo remembers his shoulders rising with his eyes, blinking away the blue in his eyes and spinning around to show his father what gift he was given. 

He became louder, full of life that it was pushing the seams of his clothes, he thinks. Tubbo even made more friends, Quackity and Ranboo, hell, even Fundy were all roped in pranks and games. Tubbo can pretend, even for a little while, that he's made of gold too.

They stop talking about Theseus as well. 

It was a progression that started that spring day. The halls were emptied of any reminders the second year that passed. Gods stop murmuring about it the third year, and by the time he is seven he hasn’t heard any stories about his other half in years. Maybe it was the stories of Theseus, the boy made out of gold and light, that kept all the blue away.

Not completely, because the absence of light couldn’t include these shifts and wobbles of darkness. It’s what you see when all those lights are out and the moon and stars are high above you. Tubbo can feel it when everyone’s gone, and he’s all alone. It’s that gaping hole in his chest that just means sadness. It's a sound that echoes in his ribcage and hollow spine from things clawing and trying to get out. It spills on his thoughts, trying and failing to fall asleep. It’s the twisting and turning, every hope and dream that he dreamt has sunk to the deepest part of the ocean, sitting there, not forgotten but misplaced; _you can’t find them!_ Something wild, and old hollows. _Where are they?_ It’s the sound of an out-of-tune violin playing in a dead room, the bow poised along the strings toned out notes of sorrow and fear.

 _They were made for one another_ , he used to hear. _What bullshit_ he wants to spit out. If they were made for one another, where the hell is he?

That's the feeling Tubbo is swimming in the first of September. Harvest is about to begin, and a month-long celebration will begin. Yet, the color blue is staining his lips and his sheets. Theseus was found in April, wasn't he? He was loved by the sun, and the fresh life breathed him. 

Yet it also makes sense that all he feels is blue. He was found in December, the frigid cold loving him so softly. So that night, he devises his masterplan.

Blue is the china vase where Tubbo leaves him flowers: Iris in hope of his return, roses in the promise of healing for what was taken, and daffodils in the faith of melting the blue that shields everything, to bring a new beginning. But blue is the water that he drowns the petals in and blue is his skin as death beckons him closer, enticing him with the promise of reunion. Blue is the color of the ink upon the crumpled paper. And blue is the color of his final plea; don’t forget me and let me bring you home. Blue are the memories he could not relive. Blue is the memory of Theseus's life so cruelly cut short. Blue is the boy that climbed out of the ivy tower and fell, fell, and fell.

What a wonderful gift it would be, for Theseus to return on his sixteen birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am speedrunning this shit I fucking swear. I will post the update for "dying doesn't work like that. I wrote this at 12 and I am now suffering the consequences.


	3. a thousand foreign sorrows i cannot name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is quiet on the day the gods lost their children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUDUDUDUDU

3.

The world was quiet on the day the godchild fell.

It wasn't what the prophets and martyrs and psalms had sung about for bygone ages. There was no graffiti on subway walls, or impending doom settling on the horizon. There was no burning hellfire or brimstone, no great rising tide or plagues of extinction set about the earth. The night sky didn't lose its stars as God's child fell to the mortal realm.

But there was a marked difference in the world after that day. Like the centerpiece of the grand puzzle has fallen off the table. The air tasted thicker like smoke was pumped out into the air, choking plants out of their green. Sunrises were duller and paler. The world took a turn for the worse after that, though no one put the pieces of the puzzle together. Corruption rang true in the tongues of politicians and the hands of poverty played as a prayer for a hook to fish them out of the barrel.

People pointed broken fingers at each other. Blaming the media. They blamed gluttonous billionaires and the starving homeless alike. They blame anything and everything, pointing at the sky and shouting revenge to the heavens.

A little boy wakes up naked on the side of a road, blood on his head and hands, and learns to be human. Another little boy wakes up with terror in his eyes and wails of sorrow that he was too young to comprehend. 

Still, life carried on, despite the cold blue that dyed the halls of Aether. 

Yet when the last Godchild disappeared, the chaos seeded its roots and spread as the hellfire promised in the testaments. 

The tectonic plates shutter, spitting molten rocks and the skies darken with brimstone fury. Grief kept the Gods at bay, the phantom feelings locking their bones and throwing the keys away in the same deep pit the small child once occupied in their hearts. The other half, always weeping and mourning for the what-if's, is missing in the wind. Left behind were simple blue words delicately delivering substantial, world tilting news. 

_Sorry dad, but I gotta find Theseus for real now. I'll come back with him on his birthday, I will stay safe and sound. Please don't get too mad :( — Tubbo_

And so he raged, Schlatt, God of Vengeance and Wealth, raged and wept. His little one, oh so fragile and naive to what it truly takes to become one of them, is _missing_. Tubbo doesn't know of bloodshed, to see life bristle and leave the body. All he knows is honeyed words of fairytales and delicate words of poems and songs. There was no dignity in death, there is sweat, blood, guts, shit, and mucus. A foul stench from the intestines and steam from the blood. Schlatt knows, and it haunts him. Tubbo is soft and small, with no place for Aether and her wrath. 

He rages and rages against the dying light. He is no wise being, his deeds are bloody carcasses in the scale of judgment for the universe to sentence. He deserves whatever he is getting but not Tubbo, never his little lamb. Schlatt knows the moment Tubbo touches down the mortal soil, he will be lost and confused. What if he goes up to someone and gets himself kidnapped? What if someone touches him? Tubbo cries for hours whenever one of his bees dies, and he thinks he can make it in the mortal realm?

 _It's happening again_ , Schlatt doesn't want to hear it. He won't let it happen, not now, not ever. He's going to find him, beat his ass, and drag him back to lock him in the tower and keep him safe and sound.

 _You're gonna find him just like Phil?_ Schlatt doesn't falter, doesn't want to acknowledge it has been a week since he found an open window and a letter left behind. He thinks— _Phil with sloped wings, and rigid shoulders, standing still as if listening to everything and anything with his eyes always scanning, always looking. Dark shadows under his eyes, and disordered hair, unable to think or eat._

The bottle cracks and shatters under his hands. Gold shines under the moonlight, illuminating his shaking hands. Is this the doomed road he's forced to walk? Just because he finally found something _good_ , and _genuine_ that the universe decides it's too good to be true? Why? He throws the broken bottle at the marble wall, taunting him with its perfection. The tissue is fusing back together, the golden blood becoming a thin line instead. 

He swings for another bottle under his drawer, and he finds empty air except for a green booklet. _Dad! Dad! Look, I made you a book! In his mind, his little lamb is there. Arms wide open as if he's trying to hug the entire sky whole. With cautious arms around him once again, of the gentle pressure applied, because I’ve only ever been so fragile to you, why wouldn’t I expect you to break?_

He wakes up the world is still spinning, hugging empty air with gold stained hands. _How glad am I that you existed,_ Schlatt wants to say, _How glad I was to have a being as rare as you, petals that so many palms will never kiss?_

He is still gone, still missing, and Schlatt has a choice; you can feel empty in his absence or allow everything he touched and did to fill you with bittersweetness. He can regret not having more time with him or you can be thankful for the moments you’ve shared and lived. You can curse the cosmos for taking his little lamb away or thank them for blessing you with him in the first place. You can cry and shatter because he’s _gone, vanished, disappeared, missing,_ or smiled because he's probably having a good time somewhere, and he'll come home with another lost soul. 

With aching hands, and dry eyes, instead, he throws all that bullshit to the window and decides right there and then, if the fucking cosmos wanted to take away his little lamb then _fine_ , he'll bring bleeding perdition and burning brimstone to the stars and set this whole fucking galaxy ablaze.

* * *

Ranboo, God of shadows and light, is in a bit of a pickle. 

After discovering that Tubbo, the Last of the Godlings, has gone missing, everything has gone by in blur colors and picture stale moments. Plans derailed the moment Schlatt bust into the halls, screaming and raging. Accusing everyone and anyone of planting seeds of doubt, of helping Tubbo leave, of kidnapping him. The suit is gone, just the simple white morning robes, and disheveled appearance.

Phil was there, and Ranboo turned to look at the right second to see the light wilt like flowers in his eyes, the grim line of his mouth, and the sad pinch of his eyebrows. That moment, that picture stale moment is when Ranboo realizes that they are repeating history's dance.

Schlatt must have seen it as well because, in a picture stale moment, his face paled, eyes became horrified mirrors, and his mouth grimaced with the reality they were dealing with. But instead of hanging his head, of hollowing to the winds, he rages. He spits fire in his words, and points and foams at the mouth. Maybe that's the difference between him and Phil. Schlatt is living and luxury, he deals in gambles and in chances. Phil is survival and frugal, he deals in silent mourning and reality. 

Ranboo doesn't know which one is worse.

But because all of that needed an outlet, a set of direction and action, all of the Gods and Goddess of the Realm have come together to search the dimensions again. Just like last time, but maybe there's more fire in their march. They had known Thesus, of course, but they never saw him grow and flourish as they did with Tubbo. He feels like shit for it, but when he turns to look at his "search buddy" he winces.

Technoblade, God of War and Blood.

And brother to Theseus. Ranboo never had the most reliable memory, so he often carries leather notebooks with random thoughts and doodles. He wrote everything at the end of the day and sketched the vivid, living memories before they faded into oblivion. One of them just happens to have a final sketch of the young Theseus hours before his disappearance. He presented at the feet of his family as some kind of apology, to repent for something he never saw coming. Phil held the picture with just tenderness that Ranboo felt like an intruder stumbling upon an oasis. 

Wilbur, the mad bard of Aether, could only hold himself together with a face of indifference before busting undone. Warped with grief and misery, he sobbed and wailed at the heavens for his little brother. 

And Technoblade looked at the sketch and huffed a heavy sigh. "His hair is fluffier."

He was the first one to leave to earth, an ax dragging behind him as he trod the trenches of the ocean and the mountains of the land. He speaks dead languages to the tombs and pleads for information to the axis Mundi. He spills blood in the rivers, and oceans, he spills blood in the dry sand deserts and in the cold tundras of the land. And yet, there is no godchild to be found. 

With an ax dragging behind him, he returns to Aether empty-handed and offers his head as retribution. 

Kristine, God of Life, makes a fatal decision in her misery. She dives headfirst into the rivers of life, where the Sacred tree feeds. She searches and looks for the lost soul of the godling, and to this day, she is still swimming in that water. Her form dissolves with time, as she swims and swims a losing race.

Through everything that has rocked the foundations and pillars of Aether, all the tragedy and misery not once has Ranboo seen Technoblade shed a tear.

There’s an instilled form of hopelessness as he takes a good look around him; the electricity wires, the distant sounds of barking dogs and honking cars, to the flickering neon signs. Technoblade, the literal God of War, has already flipped every stone in North America, so why, why, _why_ were they here?

Technoblades sighs, justling the ax on his shoulder, “Well, let’s get started.”

Ranboo, softly whimpers, before mutely nodding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, i actually have a plotline and drafts for like 10 chapters, and wow I'm so proud of myself. I am SPEEDRUNNING THIS!


	4. a forest fire beneath my feet and no ashes to rise from

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo learns two very important lessons; Humans are a flip of a coin, good, gentle, and merciful, and they are bad, they hate and they cheat, and they crave and they rage. And he learns to love them too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pain goes brr

4.

Tubbo cannot get used to the feeling of the air here. It's heavier than what he breathes in the meadows and castle. It irks his lungs uncomfortably, not in pain, no, yet always being very aware of each and every breath he inhales. 

Sure, Tubbo has read everything relating to the mortals that live here, he has seen the films and read the poetry, but he has never really interacted with any of the people that made them. But he has never known the compassion they show, like the older gentleman who paid for his first mortal meal, a plate of cheap fish and sticks. He was aged and teeth cracking, yet he glowed with life, eyes twinkling with wise knowledge but with a hint of mischief. He spoke of sailors and jokes, almost caused a food fight, and flirted with any female that walked. Expect, of course, with Ms. Rose, who if you tried her, would fling a wooden spoon right between your eyes.

He was very serious about it, spoke very solemnly, as a wooden spoon hit his ears instead of his wrinkled forehead, and they started to bicker like an old couple. 

They remind him of Quackity and Schlatt, in some way. 

He could only smile bittersweetly before slipping away from the artificial lights and warm laughter of the pub. They are nice people, but there are also folks with cold hearts and glares for eyes. When he just made it to a town called Nottingham, he was alone and hungry and tired. His back hurts and his neck is sore and aches for a soft place to rest; to open a door and see his soft bed, big pillows surrounding him and comforting him as he drifts off. 

Tubbo must have been drifting off in his mind because he was knocked back into reality when he accidentally bumped shoulders with a much taller, meaner man. There's a fist coming and _—_

Tubbo comes to gasping, clutching his torso and holding his body protectively. He doesn't really remember how he got here but he got a pretty solid guess on what happens. Your heart, so heavy and cold for the past weeks, jackknife in his chest and seizes uncontrollably. And for 17.9 seconds the synaptic paths of his last memory fire up and he opens his eyes and finds himself in the dirty puddle in the back of an alleyway. 

You are after the small clench in your chest, the contraction of muscle, and breath behind your sternum. Tubbo wants to memorize that infinitesimal spike of adrenaline when he confirms that he is still alive, still breathing, and still so painstakingly mortal. Slight nausea follows, vague coiling in his guts. The world feels a degree colder and emptier and it is already terribly empty. Theseus would have been suffering just like he was for years, and not have thought much of it. Theseus would have gone through heartbreaks like mortals, and here he is, being a terrible friend and complaining from a little stomach pain.

Tubbo closes his eyes and tries to bring his face into definition but he can’t _—_ you can only guess, suppose a child with gold ringlets and fair skin. Smile white in the blur of his face.

_“You and me, big man.”_

You remember hands closing over yours, their hands close like a prayer around yours.

_“I’ll have the yellow and orange ones. You can have the green and the pink.”_

Smell _—_ oranges and chocolate.

Hatred is electric heat; feel it as static in your brain, the ghost’s words lancing something raw inside you and for the split second your temper gets the best of you, Tubbo claws to his knees, powdered by echos of children's laughter, hurt enough to make every rib in your chest vibrate. Theseus is a good person, _a child_ , and yet he was cast down and left to rot in an unmerciful, cold plane. He bleeds like a mortal and he will die a mortal, blood, and guts liquified, and putrefaction stench the air, leaving behind just hair, bones, the cartilage of decay.

And that _—_ that _hurts_.

It's a deep wound no matter how much he bandages it because Tubbo knows that Theseus is _good_. He was just a little boy whose sin was laughing too loud at the wrong times. He weaved gold wherever he went, rising chest as he shouts to the cosmos and beyond. He chased Tubbo around, climbed trees, and more yet Tubbo can't really make sure because he can't remember. He forgot what he sounds like, how his smile dipped, or what he would have said if he saw him here, lying in a dirty puddle in the alleyways of Nottingham.

 _What happened to Theseus is not fair,_ it hurts but he gets up, gritting his teeth. He reinforced the bond made from broken promises and hollowed memories. _Avenge him, find him, bring him home._ And Tubbo keeps going.

_Find him. Find him. Find him. Find him. Find him. Find him._

You run and you run until you feel something seize from the back of your right ankle to the back of your knee and the pain is so startling that it breaks your stride, tripping you, and hitting the ground skidding. Your hands hit the ground first, your right palm slamming down and then your right shoulder as your elbow buckles to your momentum and you flinch because you expect the scraping pain of skin shearing off in the friction, but you hit the ground rolling and what you feel is the pain of the impact as you bounce then skid to an ungainly stop some thirty meters up the road.

The night is silent, dogs bark, and lights flicker. How pathetic. 

His run ends with him lying on his stomach with one arm under his head and the other under his chest _—_ head throbbing, body aching, but otherwise undamaged. But the other gods are damaged, they weep when they think no one can hear and they whisper to the air the heaviness in their chest. The wind picks up the broken prayers and plays them on Tubbo's ear. There's a cold metal clenched in his hands, the cold is almost burning hot with bite, but he refuses to let go. 

The little red arrow is still pointing down south, and so he will go down south.

_I promise. I promise. I promise. I promise. I promise. I promise. I promise._

"I'm gonna find you," The stars don't tilt and the axis of the earth keeps spinning, but he holds his breath for a second longer. "I'll bring you home Theseus, I swear." 

Nevermind that he has spent each and every night of the past eight months in the streets of this country, scanning crowds and sleeping under bushes and trees. He made a promise, after all, one he intends to keep.

* * *

“ _ Four in the fucking morning _ ?” Give the number the incredulity it deserves, it's not every day that Tommy wakes up at such unholy hours. 

He understands that sleep is not easy to get these days, I mean look at the economy, but he resolutely refuses to believe that he has insomnia. That's for the weak! And being insomniac means you can't sleep for jack shit, right? Well, he slept just fine a couple of hours earlier, yet his body thinks that was good enough for them. Tommy glares at his hands, as if they were the culprits behind his misery, and dives deeper into the soft bedding sheets and pillows. He counts and lays motionless as a corpse, breathing, and exhaling. 

...

"Yeah, fuck this." Kicking off the sheets of him, he glares at his phone's clock, innocently displaying the horrid numbers. He groans, palming his eyes till he sees the flying colorful dots. He's already bouncing with energy now, there's no point to pretend to go to sleep. 

He lingers in the kitchen, being as quiet as a mouse, and digs around to find the cookies and cream ice cream, eating mindlessly until he halfway panics to see he already half of the freaking tub. He, very quietly, puts everything back together and walks out of the kitchen. Stops at the doorway. Turns around and snatches a yellow apple and two water bottles before turning to leave. Clara used to call him a raccoon when he was younger, always digging through her purse looking for snacks or shiny objects. 

Five comes and goes with his headphones watching the sidemen and tik tok. It wasn't until six rolls around that Tommy finds himself too restless even for that, and he drops his phone to his chest with a heavy sigh. This isn't exactly what he pictures the start of his great weekend to be like. Didn't people say that walking is a great way to clear their heads? It's not like he can do much, Clara sleeps like a rock and Clementine needs all the sleep she can get before she makes breakfast, kisses his head, and leaves for another grueling 12-hour shift.

Nodding to himself, he puts on his shoes and walks out the door with his AirPods blasting music, thinking about everything and nothing _ —  _ never even feels the distant whispers of a love of the stars or weeping angels— and walks. The air is crisp and light, he can feel it in his lungs as he inhales so deeply he can hear the rattle of the exhale. 

He walks past the corner store that he first learned his swear, giving Clara a heart attack, and walks and walks. He finds himself in the public park, the sun sleepy rising on the horizon yet it's still grey and cold outside.

There are red swings, the same ones that Clementine pushed him and laughter in her chest, and there's a boy sitting in  _ his _ spot. 

The boy's head is bowed, hands clenched tightly with white knuckles on his lap. He looks almost dead, and Tommy panics for a second that  _ of course _ , he would be the one that stumbled upon a fucking  _ corpse _ . But that fear is distilled when the boy looks up, crystal clear blue eyes widen. Tommy rear backs, skitting to a stop in front of the boy. 

The first time their eyes meet something breaks _ —  _ _ cracks. _ It dismantles piece by screaming piece, writhes along with rib bones that never belonged to him but are all the same. A crack at the impenetrable wall between them, and squeezing through the crevice is a pitiful, 

"H- Hello."

You don’t panic exactly, but your thoughts arrest themselves and your heart jumps in your chest and you don’t know if it’s dread or awe that makes your stomach tighten and your breath thread _ —  _ He is so impossibly mortal, so human that it's more like an aching wound hot with infection. He is  _ raw _ , damaged but somehow still bright on the inside like someone squeezed a star into the cavity of his chest, and it settled itself, roots deep like the oldest trees. Theseus lives in moments and blips of history that time will blink and he is _gone—_

The boy is fucking _crying_ , his lips are wobbly and shit, and it's too fucking early for this shit.

Say, “No,” but with as much ‘fuck off’ in there as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha suffer ᵔᆼᵔ


	5. I. Wilbur's lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur blinks and there's a little boy with the sun in his hair and pearls for a smile. 
> 
> He blinks and there's a sinking black hole with white tulips and daffodils as his grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dude is kinda of an emo ngl

I.

Wilbur blinks and the sunset hues warm the clouds with vibrant colors on the horizon. Waves come and go lazily on the shore, and there, playing in the sand is a little truffle of blond hair. He blinks and there he is! He's here, little eyebrows arched in question. In defiance? In a silent “I dare you?” In a “come here already, what are you waiting for?"

His rosy cheeks look so  _ squishable _ that Wilbur finds himself bent down on the wet sand, hands holding to his face, cooing at his displeased expression. With such softness, Wilbur covers compulsively, and yet all he can do is watch a mass grave for the white tulips ripples open underneath the spot of the little boy, falling and falling. He's frozen, hand still outstretched in the air between him and the fallen little boy. 

He can't— can't think, horror rolls with nausea, crumbling to the floor like weathered obsidians. On the shore of that nameless sea, he unbottles self-addressed apologies, and choke on all the softness, trying to throw them down the hole so they can float and reach the little boy. 

_ Thes—  _

Wilbur wakes him to choking and gasping, ugliness found in the way his hands tremble like that of a drunk, and in the way his dark bedroom warps. He rolls to his side and throws up acid, choking on his tears and snot.

They say the ocean is always deeper than what we can see. Maybe to hold a place for the world's sorrows. It would make sense, the deepest pit on earth wouldn't be able to hold a God's sorrow, but no matter, he just needs someone to hold him down with a stone carved with the words to a funeral song. Sink him into the deep sea until his skin resembles it— a deep, dark place for the sorrows of celestials. A deep, dark place for a God.

He deserves it, after all, his baby brother, his one responsibility, was stolen right under their noses.  _ And he allowed it. _

Wilbur did  _ nothing _ to stop whoever to come into their island, their paradise, and snatch the child right up. Take them from the holy arches of their garden, to come and desecrate the peace they held together. Maybe he should blame his brother, he is the God of War and the hell that comes with it. He knows of fighting pathogens, the bloodshed left in a wake of gunpowder and bullets, the scent of sorrow, hanging in the air rotting away what's left of this skin. And yet, how come the God of Blood does nothing? If  _ Technoblade _ was powerless to stop it from happening, then what was the fucking point of Wilbur?

For him to sing to the cosmos for mercy? To marinate and saturate the books with pleas? To let the stench of sorrow and misery rot away at his teeth?

When did Wilbur become this pathetic? When did this descendant from grace begin? A year after his disappearance? A week? Or maybe was it the moment the Godchild appeared in Phil's arms that day?

There used to be something here. The sunsets no longer melt in the afterglow- they die and become cold and drain themselves of all the colors. Night comes and it's frigid, sharp teeth, and silent stalking in the silent hallways where the sun once used to play. 

There used to be something here.

There used to be  _ something _ here.

_ There used to be something  _ **_here_ ** _. _

Maybe if he kept playing the role of mask indifference he can play with the mirror and close his eyes and pretend. Wilbur doesn't want to look at the empty bedroom across his, the black hole sucking all the gravity of a conversation, like a beast watching them walk by. A silent accuser watching their abusers walk by. A child waiting for their parents to come and pick them up. Waiting and forever waiting.

Each scornful gaze to the door has him falling back into darkness; maybe Eurydice has found comfort in its arms. 

_ maybe this is how it's always meant to end. _

Wilbur is no Orpheus, his music can only reach so far, enchant so many. He can never reach the cosmos, not them, but he can scratch raw his trachea, and pull apart his larynx as an offering.

It's still dark outside his window, the promised sunrise drags its feet to another morning without any childish glee shrieking in the air. Wilbur wonders about a lot of things, but he wonders if Niki is alright. They haven't spoken in quite a while, and for someone who is supposed to be the Goddess of Hope and Mercy, she can be quite ruthless and cruel. 

_ "He's gone! Stop chasing ghosts, Wilbur!" _

He closes his eyes, and wills himself not to weep. How could he not? When the heavy door is across his and he wakes up, every single fucking morning and stares at the sins in his hands,  _ how could he not? _

_ "You are losing yourself, please, just stop it." _

Wilbur found himself chasing all the highs that anger used to bring. To be at the top of the mountain and see the rolling hills of life and laugh at its face. To mock it openly. He is a God— all sunset eyes and gasoline. All dust grain and stale cigarettes. Shaky lips and broken cords. Broken strings. Is it so bad then — wishing for his bones to finally break this time?

He closes his eyes and thinks back—

In the morning light, soft paddle footsteps were on the side of the too-small bed, and the little one would climb all, all lanky limbs and bones. He would roll on top of his back, pressing against his ribs and lungs and not caring for the strangled huffed under him. Wilbur could never say no to him. And now he's terrified. By the gods, he's  _ terrified _ , as he watches himself run out of reasons to make the little ghost stay. Not by the forget-me-nots, not by the poems he'll never hear or songs left in the wind.

And between two ghosts, one of a little boy gone too soon and the phantom of a God he was once, he can't ever be the first one who leaves first out of a room— of the memories of a little boy moving on to a life he's not a part of. Terrified of confronting the choking weight of emptiness in cold mornings and heavy doors. To walk away from this is something Wilbur never learned; _ that is my downfall. _ And he guesses the difference between us is when I said that I was terrified of you leaving— when I said that I was terrified of losing you, I meant it. 

He blinks and thinks of the warmth in his chest that has gone cold. He wonders if this is what Tubbo felt every day, and maybe if he was in his shoes, he would have done the same.

_ So this is love? _ He wants to ask everyone and no one, _ Is this the miracle he has been dreaming of? _

He blinks and—

In the morning’s light, his warm form fades into a distant memory, uncommitted self comes back into life. The ghost that wakes him up from his sleep retreats back into the shadows, the flesh much worse, much colder than _you_ could ever be, so much farther away than _you_ are in his dreams. 

Blue crystallized eyes twinkle, the tips of his ears are pale pink.  _ My child, _ Phil cheers with pride in his chest.  _ This is my child. _ Little fingers grab at empty air, and his smile is so wide as he dips his head back in childish laughter.

_ You  _ and he are reverse images of the same photo, the difference somehow sinister, somehow wrong in every way that matters.  _ You  _ are my favorite painting and he is the same image tilted a single degree beyond what is acceptable, distorted too far to be saved, to fit within the same frame. 

His voice is like stars twinkling in the puddles on a warm rainy summer night,  _ Wilby! _

If he's really dead, you want to say, then stay dead. If you are dead, stop waking me up. If you’re dead, stay exactly as I have frozen you in time, in memory, in a desperate attempt to hold on to the version of you. If you are dead, please remain the one and only, the genuine, the final copy. 

Wilbur doesn't know if he's crying or not.

Grief is a monster made of stomachs. Bottomless and always so hungry. It wants and it needs and it takes and _ takes and takes and takes _ and you’d think it feeds until it’s satisfying. It creeps and crawls and settles its fingers in his ribcage and wiggles its finger for an invitation to be let in. To crawl its way inside, to scoop dahlias out of my throat — and find the dumping site for all the gods that died in his hands.

His grief is still locked away in the same child's room as all the other memoirs that his father locked away. Too heavy to bear witness to, he thinks. And he doesn't blame him. His hands still remember the quiet aching of the wounds— too deep and wide for stitches and shaky hands to fix. His heart can hold on to so much grief after all.

Wilbur blinks and its morning, with the young sunrays washing to through the window— 

He would blow raspberries in his neck, as though it were an arched door of a baroque cathedral. He would strain his arms, cradling the frailty of your being. He would weave songs, and poems and perform them, made from gold and ivory. He would lie down there next to you — a clean slate, in silence and awe and uninhibited longing.

The light flicker and the sunrise blur but everyone knows —  _ my heart has always been yours to keep and break, little Theseus. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao imagine putting a filler episode in a story, crazy


	6. for out of it were you taken; and unto it shall you return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crybaby boy is finally calming down enough that Tommy feels he has done his mandatory deed of the day and gets up to leave. A hand on the wrist would say otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha, that was a nice chapter, I wonder what's gonna happen next.
> 
> wait-

5.

Tubbo inhales, and it is sharp. Dagger-edged in delusion. He whispered so many sorry's into the outstretched palm, feeling the clamped skin tremble under his fingers and breathe finally. Theseus lives!

And— And Tubbo can't breathe.

The sheer panic, the full iron weight of his actions press on his spine and strain his lungs. He has been forging in the cracks of the street, under the cement and neon lights of the mortal world. He has struggled to even comprehend what is normal here, yet Theseus has been doing this for years, alone and casts from Aether's light and he's looking at him as if he needs help.

_Is someone talking?_

He looks up, scanning for the culprit, noises lost and blended in the static on his ears but a voice sticks out from the rest. It's young yet deep, what a paradoxical dream, he knows this voice. With arguments, insults, and loud voices, he brings his attention to the blur picture in front of him, and—

"CAN YOU LISTEN TO WHAT I AM SAYING?"

Tubbo flitches, hard, knocking his knees under him. Above him, there's a shuffle and some muttered curses, and there's a warm palm on his forearm. Tubbo blinks, he needs to see for Pete's sake, and he can't really see—

You. With the hair that caught the sun's eye, and the wind's kiss blows. Your hair is longer now, less wild, and free, and your face is contoured with more chisels since your childhood days. But your freedom of expression is still painted on your face.

_Surprise, confusion, and concern._

You hit him with all your force, and from that force of reality that sucked all breath from him, he finally thinks he cracked the code to know what home is. He remembers they were sprawled out on the flower fields facing each other, smiling like idiots, mouths stretched so wide our cheeks ached with the strain. Often fantasizing about how life would be like with you still at his side.

"Quick! How many fingers am I holding?!"

The kid sprawled out on the dirt goes cross-eye when he tries to focus on them. Tommy kinda feels bad for just straight up sticking your fingers in someone's face, but it's also kinda rude to start hyperventilating in a public park.

The kid starts to stutter, playing out his words like trading cards. 

Okay, maybe not stick fingers so close to their face. But at least the kid is quieting, the trembling is calming down that Tommy feels he has done his mandatory deed of the day. There's enough static going on in his head, he doesn't want the added stress of a mental breakdown to add to that pile, thank you very much. He clears his throat as if that does anything to dispel the awkward feelings.

"Well, I hope you are in a good place man, cuz I, uh, I need to go, so, um. Yeah. Bye!" He turns to leave, but a hand on his wrist says otherwise. 

Something peculiar happens when the skin meets his, there's a spark in the air that saturates the color in the tree's leaves, sharpens the depth in the tree bark, and heightens the bleary sounds of the morning city. Something alive comes undone, as skin meets skin, and something inside Tommy unravels.

_Who are you?_

The kid with watery eyes only offers a wobbly smile. 

"Hi Theseus, sorry it took me so long to find you."

There's a supernova explosion behind your eyes, the colors blur in for an instant you are too small for your form, undone in a field of daffodils and baby green grass. You are gulping for air, breathless laughter ringing in the air. Soft clouds above you, and you think—

"Who the fuck is Theseus?"

The world resumed, Tommy never noticed how it stopped spinning for him, the trees waved, the dogs barked, and cars honked. But the kid blinks and more tears fall, he looks so heartbroken that Tommy wants to back paddle those words, to pluck them and shove them right back down his throat. It's like he stepped on a puppy. 

"You— You don't remember me, do you?"

Tommy recoils, bringing his arms away from the boy with the quavering voice, caught halfway between confessions and dreams. Shaking hands tell him that maybe he does recognize him from somewhere. He thinks of police officers with right red lights and flashing blues as they haul him from the ground. Protecting him from beasts made of metal and black smoke.

_Do I know you?_

"Uh, sorry man. Name's Tommy, the greatest man to have ever walked." Tommy's nerve bubbled with shaky laughter, scratching the back of his neck. Maybe he subconsciously backed away, feet jumping the gun at a moment's notice. Tubbo shot to his feet, stumbling as he launched himself closer.

"Wait! Please wait!" 

"Woah man, uh, I got a girlfriend—" 

Blurting out, "I am Tubbo!" Wasn't what he spins in his daydreams, what he worded his interactions with a blue ghost over what could have been. His stomach recoils, and his eyes looped around each other, _this isn't how it's supposed to be._

Theseus scrunched his nose, eyes squinting at his figure, "Okay?" 

"And I am a god." Tubbo closes his eyes, thinks very clearly and loudly _Why the fuck did I say that?!_

"Fucking what— excuse me?" A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of Theseus's chest, the hot burning shame hits the bong in the back of his throat. He rushes to explain, stumbling through his words as Theseus slowly starts to back away.

"Wait, uh, technically I'm a godling, but if I show you can you please listen?" 

"Look man, I don't have the time to deal—"

"ᴛʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ"

The air shrank, gravel and dirt lifted as if summoned, hovering over the earth in a show of waiting, around them, the world stopped singing its tune and stilled. The pressure made Tommy's ears pop, and he's eight again, the hand of gravity pushing in into the dusty flooring. 

But just like that, it's lifted.

Tommy spun, nausea swirling in his turning stomach, he can feel the pricks of tears at the corner of his eyes as the world resumes as if nothing happened. As if the air wasn't cold to stone and the axis of the earth tilted in the opposite direction.

"WOAH! What the fuck?! What the _hell_ was that?!" His voice cracks, he vehemently refuses to meet anything, to just focus and breathe.

"Sorry! I didn't mean for it to come out like that, but I swear that I am real!" 

Oceans away a brother remembers what is like to live, and another mourns what he forgot. Continents away, a father snaps himself from a drunken rage to let the familiar feeling of home wash over before that too is washed away.

"Did... Did we know each other?" _Why does he ask that?_ He blinks and Tommy swears he smells oranges and baby green grass. Tubbo smiles, eyes closed to keep the tears at bay. No, not really. They were just some kids that followed each other no matter where they went. If Tommy becomes a mortal, then he will so.

"Yes, yes we— we are bonded. We were only children, but I came to find you after you disappeared." Tommy stands still, the wind kicking through the leaves, and Tubbo holds his breath.

"Disappeared?— You know what? Let's get some food first. It's too early for this shit." There are blue sirens and bright neon jackets with needles in his arms. He needs to feel the skin against his clothes rather from the gravel under his bare feet, the trees too big and too tall, and suddenly he's back in the park with a kid with too watery eyes. 

He spins around, hearing the kid walk to catch up to him, the pressure in his ears lifting as they step out of the park. There's a brief silence.

"Where are we going?" Tommy almost jumps, which he does not because that would imply that he gets scared.

"Getting some grub, for men like us, requires it to grow the strongest and tallest." 

More silence.

"Theseus—" 

"Tommy." He interrupts the trigger response firing out before he can clamp it down.

"Huh?" 

Tommy turns, the boy, Tubbo tilting his head. "My name is Tommy." 

"Okay. Tommy. I came from Aether, following our bond, see it always points at you—" 

He holds his hands up, the static in his head whisking his thoughts. There's a certain numbness turning his limbs into lead, but he waves it off with his hands. Grin his face, he faces Tubbo.

"Alright, Alright I believe you, but can we please talk about this weird god shit after we get some food?" 

* * *

You are a tour guide in this turning world, like in the first meeting, as you walk and talk through the neighborhood. Talks about Mrs. Jones— the old church loving Christian that preaches her own tune and gives out money to those that cut her grass. You speak of Mr. Willaim, an old soldier from an old war, a relic that sneers at death with his tattoos and motorcycle at age 70.

* * *

"No! That's a— a crime against humanity! Against the Queen! How could you never have bourbon biscuits before?!" Tommy puffed out before waving his arms around as if they weren't in the middle of the street with his mouth agape and eyes stunned. Tubbo rolled his eyes, not hesitating in scoffing loudly now.

Lollipops rolled in his tongue, sharp artificial flavors enhancing the world's corners just a bit.

"Wah, it's not my fault that I never had them!" 

Tommy rolls his eyes too, grumbling under his breath before turning to him. The sky above them glowed with soft light, couples past and the world laughs.

"Well, basically they're these biscuits, yeah? With custard creme in the middle, have you ever had custard creme in the past?" Tubbo furrowed his eyes, thinking. Maybe?

"No?"

"Okay, so basically it has this layer right? Ever had the jammy dodgers? They're like that but better, except when there are biscuit crumbs everywhere, especially when it gets stuck between your teeth and you gotta dig them out with your finger."

"Ugh— Tommy! That's so unhygienic!"

"Wha— So what?! A man gotta do what a man gotta do, bitch boy!"

* * *

The world still spins, the dogs still bark and Tubbo finds himself painting over the blue tainted memories of Theseus with Tommy's wild and chaotic ones. He can't find himself to care, either way, there's life here, and that's enough for him. (Less and less he finds himself worrying over Home too, not that he'll ever admit to it)

* * *

"Anyway, ya ever heard of Twitch Prime?" They are sprawled in the grass, textbooks open and their frustration rin dry after so many yelling sessions at fancy words and school work. Not that Tommy did much, after all, it was mostly Tubbo who carried in History.

Tubbo turns his head at him, arms and body relaxed under the tree shade, "What is a twitch prime?"

A mischievous grin, "Oh Tubbo my friend, you have so much to learn."

* * *

It's all chaotic and wild, but you move through it all as if it's as flexible and easy as water. And before you know it, two weeks have passed by. 

* * *

"You are dumb stupid and dumb, this mission is gonna be adequate and shit, just watch." Tubbo did watch, unimpressed as Tommy tried and failed to climb over the brick fence. Maybe they shouldn't be—

_Crash!_

Tommy's terrified face swirled back, and guilty shrugged before hurling himself off, not throwing a look behind him as he bolted. Was that a glass shattering?

"AYYYY TUBBO, maaaaa friend! Run!"

 _What? Oh no, what did he do now?_ Tubbo didn't care as long as he's keeping up with Tommy, crisscrossing the streets and cutting through alleyways. The sun is setting, pink clouds painting the orange hues. They are gasping for air, burning lungs inhaling what they could before letting out the hot steam brewing in their lungs.

Silence, the dog's bark and the cars honk, and between their labored breaths—

"So Tubbo, texting any girls lately?"

* * *

_And so much like yourself, once upon a time, as you turn to him, and you smile with your body; rising to meet him, your eyes blooming like dandelions in spring, and your shoulders swaying him to come closer. You grin mischievously, a bad omen for law and order, as you whisper a temptation for childish glee._

_“Want to see a magic trick?”_

So for now, you will play the docile friend. You will smile and you will laugh, genuine curiosity and wonder will come over you. This is how you would build worlds that orbit you and him. Like the earth and the moon. No. More like the sun, he was the sun, always so bright that if you stare long enough you'll burn yourself blind. And so you feared that if you kept looking at his neat white socks or his iron pressed pants that somehow it would save you from his eyes.

* * *

Technoblade is in the middle of an advanced interrogation when the air fries with an electrifying force that lasts just a couple of milliseconds. It raises the hair in the back of his neck and tightens the ball in his stomach to an uncomfortable degree. Dread is a coil of wire around the muscle of your heart, garroting quietly tighter.

It's the mark of a godling. 

Ranboo must have felt it as well, dropping the tools covered in a thin sheen of blood at his feet and cranking his neck to the ceiling. He and Tubbo are close, aren't they? Ranboo shrieks and Techno drops the bloodied body to the ground—

_HURRY!_

Dropping the books on his lap, scattering the papers into the whirlwind he leaves. Then you’re fucking blitzing out the door like a hellhound and, you hurl yourself into an electric burst of red and pink as he runs and _runs and runs to hurry! He's in danger! HURRY! WHY ARE YOU THIS SLOW?!_

Techno breaks the hinges off the heavy wooden doors to the outside, he almost trips on his own two feet when he sees Phil standing there, alive and unharmed. But, he's holding something so close and tenderly to his chest. His wings are open, and puffed, hovering over him. 

"Phil...?" 

Techno hasn't sounded so breathless since he was created, and why is Philza shrieking? The God turns, cheeks blossoming with color with tears in his eyes, sparkling with color and joy. It takes him by surprise, the way Phil is so loose, and he tries to lean back, trying to see the situation from outside, to try to understand, but Phil walks right up to him, forcing him to see. 

There's a baby swaddled in Phil's arms.

Phil's eyes shine with his heart, with a rapture glow. It knocks Techno out of balance, he glances at Phil and right back down at the truffle of gold hair peeking through— _Is that Phil's robes?!_

"Phil? What is—"

"PHIL! PHILZA ARE YOU OKAY?!"

Wilburs, all wild colors and blur lines bust through the same doors that Techno had, smacking right into his back. Your blood throbs through you like it’s gained density, Wilbur, that asshole, is standing a heaving chest, head, and this time he's knocked out of balance, stumbling further into the room and all too close to Phil's chest. And a baby coos.

The little sounds are enough for Phil to break into tears right there and then. Wilbur and Techno freeze, their entangled limbs strain. There's a spark in his neurons' synapses, directly triggered by external stimuli— the feather brushes of Phil's wings, you see it in the tender robes, you hear in his cooing. Each of these events triggers a series of signals in the brain that finally dawns on you.

"You—"

"You're holding a baby!" Wilbur sounds just as breathless as he does, but maybe it's for a different reason as you take his appearance of light sweat and heavy breathing.

“I know,” says the God of Survival mildly.

Phil's eyes, pale blue— eerily so, like bad gene-augments or colored lenses— have the kind of weight and comprehension that makes you uncomfortable if you gaze into them for too long. His gaze has a physical weight to them. You are close enough to the baby that you can see their eyes twinkle behind the royal robes of the God King. The gray-blue of his eyes are the same as his, dark at the edges pale in the iris, the pupils too big and blown wide, making his stare vaguely alien but achingly familiar to you. He has Philza's eyes.

"He's yours."

Wilbur startles out his frozen state, backing away from the scene, and Techno is grateful to be free from the weight. But he still doesn't move, still hunched over, staring at the little baby robed in majesty and sweet feathers. The baby coos and it effortlessly makes Phil swoon.

Phil drops his wings, they are still open though and lets the robes fall. The child is like a blossoming flower in Phil's arms, Christmas Rose someone whispers, born on the King's love and light. Technoblade can feel the earth rejoice, and hear the distant songs of angel's choirs, and somewhere deep inside him, he can still feel the cosmos shift and dance at the child's blessed birth from the stars.

"Oh," In breathless exultation, Wilbur finally voiced.

Phil is smiling cheek to cheek, shoulders dropping like he's released from insatiable chains. Techno thinks he's beginning to understand just a little better; he recalls Phil standing by his lonesome self, Kristine gone for the day, in Tubbo's birth party. He saw the shift in Phil's eyes whenever he gazed at the godchild in Schlatt's arms, and saw the tight edges of his eyes when he smiled. 

_Jealous, hurt, and want._

Yet when he stands in the middle of the garden, with blooming buds of flowers and baby fresh grass. Techno opens his eyes and understands. _That is Philza's child. He's one of us._

Wilbur breaks the tension first, softly making his way closer to Phil and the golden child. Phil brings the child a bit closer to his chest, and Wilbur throws a look over his shoulder, directly at him. _O come, let us adore him_ , and he, God of War and Blood and all the bad things obliged.

Maybe it's the dip of the toothy smile, the tiny fists waging in the air like it has a bone to pick with creation, that convinces Technoblade that the cosmos made the boy for them. Something is just that special about how the baby showcases his soul in his eyes, something he can't steer clear from. Maybe the child has become embedded in Wilbur's skin as much as he has done to you. He's robed in royalty and when he gazes deep inside those pale eyes, he finds gold and strikes it rich.

The Cosmos made him for Phil, he feels. This child is armed with the strength of the skies behind each blink and the sense of peace with his presence. The Cosmos made him for Wilbur, he feels. The child has the ability to silence legions of demons with the coos he makes and bring the gravity of the whole universe with the wave of a tiny fist.

"Theseus." 

Phil gives him a puzzled look and Wilbur whips around with a questioned sound. Technoblade looks at neither of them, his eyes still trained on the pale blue eyes with stars made of gold freckles in.

"His name is Theseus."

And Phil nodded in agreement and Wilbur hummed a hymn. 

Two months, and three broken vases later, you think you’re going insane.

Does the little raccoon think he can frame _him?_ The Blood God? And get away with it? Techno barely breaks into a sprint before the little gremlin hid under Philza's robes. Which isn't fair, at all. 

Phil only raised an unamused eyebrow before going back to his paperwork. Techno huffs a defeated sigh, and he swears he can faintly hear Wilbur's laughter—

Ranboo's shrieking is still ringing in his ears and Techno brings himself to breathe. He thinks and he remembers; Theseus is so small and he had watched that little god grow, gain the gleam of self-awareness in his eyes, watched as he’d lost his baby-fine, downy hair, and learned his first words. Had held him and looked down into his little brother’s sleeping, trusting face. Had known the expression of open wonder and rapture his little brother would wear, new to this life as he was, as he had been shown what the world was like, the multitude it contained.

It must be a mercy.

He strikes down the foolish mortal still bloodied in his feet, and drags himself to the shaken Ranboo, collapsed and crying through snot. He sighs and drags him along as well.

It must be a mercy.

The God of War drags the weeping God to the rest of their kind, watches with disconnected interest as they talk, yell, shout and try to dissect what they all felt in those milliseconds. 

It is mercy. _It is mercy. It must **be** mercy._ How could they stand to live with the hollow emptiness of where radiant light had once lived? How could they stand to live with merely the memory of him, as rosy cheeks hollow out to splitting, barely containing what they had been, the totality of what they had lost?

Technoblade remembers as his father collapsed into himself on dark nights when the stars weren't watching, like the remnants of a sun gone nova. My son, he called out to the wind, and Techno is a coward, unable to help and rather hide behind the veil of darkness and silence that they share in their loss. Maybe that is what Theseus will ever amount to, the only thing to remember him by, hollowed-out prayers and tear stain smiles.

He doesn't want to remember him though, he wants to think of happy laughter and mischievous shrieking, but when he closes his eyes against the storm of noises all he thinks is his father's cries and Wilbur's mad laugh. And no, never that, so instead, he'll ask: What blood must I spill to stop the ache in his chest? How many daylights do I have to curse into the void? How many? 

Technoblade sighs, and he gets up to leave, dragging his bloodied ax behind him. It doesn't matter how much blood stains in the soil, how many days he must dive into the void, he does what he must out of the love and misery he is chained by.

* * *

Tubbo just thought the worst of it all was laying on his bed at night and feeling so alone living in a house with a ghost. Theseus is not a quiet ghost either. Every morning he would smile and it took all the sunshine out of the room. Tubbo was so content with the ordinary patterns and mundane through the years, that he forgets that a ghost pales in comparison to the real thing.

When Tommy laughs, his laughter feels like a dying sun ray directed right at him. Like blooming flowers in fresh spring, and with his limited human vocabulary he fumbled with the crooked, vague, feeling that waved through his mind. Tommy's laughs are lions roaring and earth's plates moving, it's there and you can't ignore it no matter if you close your eyes. 

Now the worst part of it all is the restart. With a press of a button, leaving behind everything you know the vocabulary for, suddenly you are naked and alone in a foreign world with nothing but your wits and morals.

Tommy screams, not like Theseus, he screams like he has a bone to pick with God and screams like he has something to prove to the world. It's new and wonderful; there are links being connected, and memories being stacked against each other in a tower to reach the cosmos. It's a blast of color and vibrancy that is simply too restless to stay still, there's always too much life stuffed in Tommy's bones.

Tubbo doesn't quite have the words to describe it; it’s like the ashy remnants of wood from an angry hellfire, yet those pieces just simply refuse to get reduced down to pure black carbon, pigheadedly holding onto a shred of what wood they once were before the inferno. Or it’s like the stuffed bear in the top shelf, collecting dust bunnies to hop around with, and somehow still holding its ratty shape and childhood smell after so many forgotten years.

He mourns what he doesn't really know. It's a fact, Tubbo doesn't know who Theseus was. He doesn't remember if he liked chicken or steak better, if he hated broccoli with the same fiery passion as he did, or maybe the most simple of things; what his favorite color was.

"What is your favorite color?" Blurting it out, while eating an ice cream sandwich, came out more like "wha's 'ur fav'rite co'lr"

Tommy makes a disgusted face before handing him a napkin too thin that they took from the corner store, and fixes him with a "What?"

Tubbo swallows, letting the heat from his neck reach his cheeks, and retries again, "What's your favorite color?"

Tommy blinks a couple of times before letting out a breathless laugh, "Jesus, we've been talking for days now! That's something that comes up in the first conversation, I would know since I talk to all the women, but I have you know that my favorite color is red, obviously because c'mon now, red is clearly the superior, most alpha color there is— "

He lets the rant wash over him, something about alphas and women, and Tubbo doesn't know what Theseus's favorite color was. He was always surrounded by gold and blue, so maybe those were his favorite colors? He thinks— Childish naïve, as they played tag under the golden rays of the sunset, and counting the bugs underneath the rotting wood with the stars above them. You said that _if you squint hard enough, they look like porcupines dancing with each other._

"—and think about the economy man!"

He merely hums in agreement, because who the fuck knows how the color red led to the topic of a country's economy, not that Tubbo is going to start questioning it.

Tommy, in his humble opinion, feels like the running away, but not the real kind. More like how Tubbo read in his adventure books, tucked away in his tower. Running to endless woods that hid magical, harmless creatures, running to hills filled with flowers and frogs and grasshoppers. Happy ignorant and not having to prepare but knowing the future of everlasting happiness and sunshine.

Tommy doesn't know of the bloodshed and heartbreak done on his name, and he won't know, not really.

That thinking starts him down the road to the inevitable; his dad. He tries to shove away the horned silhouette from his mind because he's here to spend time with Tommy not think about his dad, and actually get to know who Tommy Innit is. Not to think of him as some ghost that he never really knew.

Well, obviously that's he's going to be super mad, that's a given. He never really saw him mad, sure he got angry and yelled at others but he never really directed any of his anger towards Tubbo himself. If Tubbo was being logical, then he should have opened himself back to Aether's flow and let the other Gods and Goddess find him, and when they would find him they would also find Tommy. Then they can live happily in Aether, without worrying about anything, just like before.

If only.

Moral life taught him about callous hands and that love for self-fantasy comes from a hatred of reality. Tubbo is more grounded in reality now, the light in his eyes sharpened with each tumbling step taken since he let himself fall. His father is more likely to lock him in his tower and throw the key away in the darkest, deepest hole he can find. Tommy has been living his entire life here, he has friends that care for him, he has family that looks out for him, and more importantly, Tommy is a person that deserves to live out his days as he wants. 

And that breaks his heart.

He thinks back to the side glances and worried whispers that clouded his days; to Wilbur humming to himself when he thought no one was looking, the way Phil lost himself in his own fantasy stuck in his head, and to Technoblade with tired eyes and dull expression, doomed to search and search and search. They also deserve to be happy too, don't they?

"Oh yeah! Clara wants to meet you, like for reals. She went on and on about 'positive influence' which is utter _bullshit_. How are you a positive influence, you almost died because you walked straight into traffic—"

"It was one time!"

* * *

Clara is a nice, beautiful woman. Tubbo doesn't know what to really expect from the woman that took in and raised Theseus as her own. Maybe to be as loud as Tommy, or to be just as restless as him, but she is instead; manifesting in summer waves and attracting all the attention from the lights in the room. She walks with intention yet her words are gentle on the ears and mind. She dazzles him in hugs and happy laughter when he comes into her home, already whisking him into the table for a meal.

Despite the brief moments of silence, the air is somehow full of something alive. It's at the tip of his tongue, the words are dancing a duet without a partner, as his mind tries to match its tempo. Its warm fuzzy feeling as the clanking and meeting of forks against ceramic fills the in-between momenta of conversations.

It's nice.

Tommy talks randomly, filling the air with woven tales of adventure, and Tubbo chimes in at the perfect tempo, the duet of knowing each other to finish each other's train of thought shines in the way Tommy glances at him and Tubbo makes a funny face in return. It... feels good to be part of something that is entirely his own.

Similar to a peaceful melody playing through his mind, a beautiful kind, akin to the stultifying flavors of the sturdy soup Clara made, relishing Tubbo's tastebuds to something so new. Schlatt is never one to try his hand at cooking, the furthest he venture was once making a cake to celebrate his little horns breaking through his scalp, only for the thing coming out charred and burnt like it spent cooking an eternity in Hell. 

This soup though, you can tell this was made by human hands. The uneven chops of the carrots, the low-grade meat, the almost artificial scent of some questionable spices, yet it's so harmonically perfect. It fills his stomach, the lining of it warming up with each spoon full of the broth and veggies.

And whenever Tubbo speaks, Tommy swirls his head to look at him just a bit better, just a bit clearer, and he swears that his cheeks ache from how much smiling he has done the past few hours.

It's nice.

"And school? How's that treating you?" Clara is twinkling stars for eyes, the way her smile crooks just a little to the left to show her teeth showcases the warmth of a distant sun, warm and loving. When she laughs at Tommy's stupid jokes, her shoulders rose with each laugh and her eyes crinkle like candy wrappers. Every motion she created is an animated picture, and it made him want to sway with the same laugh.

"Oh! I'm actually homeschooled! My dad didn't like the idea of being in public school." The lie comes to life easy enough, it's mindless and directionless, but with each little lie, the mountain of them grows and grows until he can't see the sky anymore. 

She blinks and smiles. "You are welcome to come over whenever you want, got it? It isn't every day that Tommy brings home friends." 

Tommy sputters, blinking rapidly and his chest rising with heated words, ready to charge in and to spitfire. "WHA— What?! The sheer audacity—!"

Tubbo barks a laugh, and Clara joins, and in a perfect tune, it becomes a picture perfect moment.

It's nice.

When the lukewarm water hits his palms, dirty dish in hand, Tubbo hums the same lullaby that he used to dance to. Clara insisted that she cleaned the dishes, but Tubbo isn't a dumbass like Tommy wants to believe, he knows manners. And he needs to repay her in some way. Maybe Tommy caught the look of determination in his eye, sighed and told some joke and distracted Clara long enough for Tubbo to slip away and start washing the dishes.

_It's nice._

Tubbo freezes mid-motion, half rising the plate and looking beyond it. It's... nice. Everything here is _nice_ ; Tommy is a social butterfly, always surrounded by friends or acquaintances, always talking, and always in motion. His mother makes more than enough money to cover any expenses, and he always has loving arms to come home to, ready to help and cook delicious soup too.

And Tubbo is here to take all of that away.

His heart thuds like the heavy drummer, Tubbo is going to tear Tommy away from his human family, ripping him away from everything he knows to be true and knows. Snapping himself from the train of thought, he hears the faucet still rising soapy dish and he hurries to clean it. Tommy makes some jokes and Clara joins in with her chime bell laugh, easygoing and light. Tubbo understands that what he's going to do is wrong but then he thinks of Phil, Techno, and Wilbur, and all the other gods and goddesses and he also knows that they deserve to meet him as well.

Tubbo is young, naive, and doesn't know everything about the world just yet but he knows this to be true; Theseus' disappearance drove his family to the edges of insanity, causing bouts upon bouts of disparity, and they are still deliberately fighting off these strands of uncertainty. The chaos Tubbo has often found himself steeped into can be seamlessly attributed to Theseus's presence within his life, but then again, Tommy's absence is not something that is a given. Tubbo blindly holds out his hands in the darkness to try and continue on the path they call wisdom if only I can learn to keep you at bay.

It's like a sensitive trigger within the realms of his mind, whose nature has been chaotic for as far as he can remember. Can he separate himself from you? He cannot separate himself from you, so he has to learn to live with you, but all he asks from you is to be gentle with his soul and especially his heart, for he only just begun to talk to his heart and he wouldn't want it to shut off to him before he can even begin to understand it.

"Hey, kiddo," Her voice grabs his attention to the still running water and clean dish in his hand. She has her hip to the door's arch and her eyes are drawn in with concern.

“You alright?”

Was he? Tubbo smiles.

No. “Yes.”

Clara tilts her head with amusement in her eyes, as he is the most transparent thing to walk on this earth— which is fair but then again she doesn't know she's speaking to a God. Well, almost God. She hums, walking to the sink and taking the dish from him.

"You're a guest, my love, you don't need to be washing dishes here. Go up with Tommy to his room and be a kid, 'right?"

 _She's too nice_ , his mind cries with sorrow. She will lose her only child, the one she pours her heart out for, the one she spends her life on, and Tubbo will be the cause for such heartbreak. He wonders if he's repeating History's dance.

All Tubbo can do is smile as bright as he can, apologize for not doing all the dishes, maybe hoping that she catches the internalized silent pleading for forgiveness in his words.

Tommy, already relaxed on his bed, is playing whatever on his phone, _he got it for his birthday_ he said with pride in his puffed chest. Tubbo bites the gut reaction of vile out all his regrets into the floor right there and then. He swallows the cement forming in his mouth, afraid if he opens it now all that will come out is the half-baked letters and stuttered sentences.

"Can we talk?"

Maybe Tommy sensed the turmoil rolling under Tubbo's eyes because he drops his phone to his side and straightens his posture to fix him with a hard stare.

"You good?" Tubbo wants to giggle at that; what a silly human thing to say, and that's what Tommy is, a silly little human. Doomed to live with fire in his lungs in a tiny blip of time, so insignificant, to go out in a bright fire of light.

"Remember when we agreed we wouldn't talk about all the "weird god shit" until the time was right?" Tommy leans back just the slightest, lips turning to a small frown and his eyes turn in a concerned confusion. 

"Yeah? What about it, big man?" Tubbo shakily exhales, and _oh no_ he can feel his eyes sting, there're wet and he can't cry here.

"Can we talk about it now?"

Silence, so brief like the ocean parted between them and Tubbo is hopeless on the shore, oh god he screwed this one didn't—

"Alright? What's wrong? Why do you look like you're gonna cry?"

Blurting, "I want to go home." With such frenzies that Tubbo wants to claw those words right into his mouth and down the shaft. What is he doing? Wasn't he happy?

_Is he?_

Tommy blinks, an odd expression filters through his face before it gets wiped clean, letting one of the thoughtfulness fall in place. Then one of confusion and 'okay?' Tubbo wants to bang his head against the door, maybe letting out a few curses as well.

"And I want you to come with me."

This time there's a reaction; like dropping a heavy stone in the perfectly calm water at a ridiculously slow speed, there comes the slow realization of what Tubbo is trying to shove into those simple words. The heavy impact, with pursed lips, blown out eyes, and taken back expression. And finally the after ripples.

"What the fuck do you mean?! I already told you this! I ain't going to whatever fucking show you trying to sell here, 'lright?!" Tubbo braces himself with the images of Wilbur's broken chords and bloody mouth, rapture in his eyes as he curses the cosmos in his poems. Thinks of Philza's distant, and disinterested eyes whenever he speaks to anyone, and he thinks of the silent Blood God, eyes dark and face so exhausted and hollow.

"I understand that! I do! But Tommy, you're the one that told me that you wanted to know more about this "weird god shit" and—"

Tommy launches himself out of his bed, the act of caring for whoever heard all but dropped as he raises his fingers with his voice, "Me?! You were the one that dragged me into this in the first fucking place!"

"You have a family! You— You cannot be selfish here, not when— when they are suffering—"

Tommy's eyes widen, his fists shake, and Tubbo closes his eyes, think very clearly and loudly _fuck._

"What the hell does that even mean?! I have a family, and they are downstairs, cleaning up after hosting you, _dickhead_. I fucking love my family, and you can't come in here spouting some horse shit, like, like they don't fucking matter. I don't need someone to tell who my fucking family is, I know who the fuck my family is that is certainly ain't _you!"_

Tubbo blinks, stunned immobile by the careless words. Snarl, ignore the sting in your eyes, the vile swirling in the back of your throat, and ignore the diminishing control over the tight lock on your powers.

"I am family though! We share a literal freaking bond! I never wanted to come in the first place! I left everything I ever knew to come searching for you, asshole! Everyone thought I was batshit crazy for even believing you were still alive and they all gave me shit for it! I fucking HATE IT HERE!" 

There's a blast of hot air, scattering school papers off the desk, the burning rush of electricity through his skin layers, hair standing straight in command, snarling with power and sharp edges. But just like that, a hole sucks everything back in, leaving the white noise in its wake, with a shocked Tommy and a mortified Tubbo left at the epicenter. 

There's the empty silence, then;

"Oh no."

 _OH NO._ Tubbo smacks himself, towering over Tommy, shell shocked, _what have I done?_ But he shoves him to the door, thankful he still has his shoes on as they stumble down the creaking stairs. Tommy doesn't protest because then they lock eyes, watery regretful and righteous melting anger, and they both understand in some capacity. 

There are apologies stuck to the meat of his tongue like wet paper, still, he still tungs him out the door, the warning from ages ago still ringing, _If I ever let my abilities loose, we must hide._

"Woah! What's the rush!?" Clara, sweet Clara, with hair wild as her eyes as she comes out of the kitchen, just barely missing them. Tommy shouts back over his shoulder, "We'll be back! Don't worry!"

_Why?_

If Tubbo can smell it simmering under his skin, the itch of tameless energy branded to him, then the other, much older Gods certainly can. He swallows his regret, but not really, it still a hardball stuck choking in his throat. He doesn't care where they end up, in the streets and further and further away from the lights of the houses, just far enough to trick themselves into thinking they are safe. 

_Because everyone else in the entire cosmos is gonna come looking for us._

There's a certain type of cruelty, the thing with betrayal is that it comes from the softest, safest places — like dark brown eyes and a smile that reminds you of quiet, content mornings. Like lullabies sung under dripping candle wax— slowly dripping on the sun lines of horns and coins. Like warm rooms and summer rainfalls. Like gentle sunrises, creeping about to wake him to a new morning. Here's to their cruelty to watch out for, as you break hearts and trust. Daylight apologies mean nothing after the heart has been cut out of the crevices of the chest, open to the ache of the world. 

"Tubbo."

The thing about betrayal— sometimes its sharp edges and constant aches for the missing love it once held. But here and now, it's for the slashed trust, thrown out the window and certified with blue ink left with a blue vase.

And what can Tubbo do but freeze when the voice carries such heaviness?

Schlatt's voice booms, and with it carries the wave of homesickness that nearly trips him over. To bring him to his knees and crawl into the same warm blankets of the library and sleep to the sun's schedule, _to be safe_. 

There's a trembling hand still holding him to reality, and he can't fail him now, not after so many promises made under the new moon and weeping stars.

"Dad."

His father, all sharp horns and dark eyes waver when he hears his voice. Maybe he doesn't recognize him, not after the months stayed in the streets of England, or maybe it's the way his dad sharply inhales that he sees he isn't looking just at him.

Theseus, Tommy, soulmate. 

Tubbo wants to cry, to bust undone, but he can't when Tommy is depending on him, so he grips him tighter and smiles wobbly, and maybe he can't really see his dad very well because of the unshed tears. 

"Dad, I found Theseus. I told you so."

You look over your shoulder back at Tommy, silent and pale, and you carefully examine the exterior of the building they were backed towards. He can't climb that well, and Tommy is too in shock, maybe it's the aura that old gods carry. His eyes roam the two and three-story windows, a few of them are broken, ragged curtains waving in the light breeze. They are backed into a corner, aren't they?

"You caused quite a ruckus, you know.” Schlatt's voice is hard. Wield yourself not to cry, not now, you live in reality now. The grip on his wrist tightens. “What, you thought I wouldn't find you or something?”

 _Keep Theseus safe,_ the mantra grilled into the meat of your skin commands it so. Throw your head back and smile, "Sorry I lied about not looking for Theseus, but I gotta do the right thing, dad."

He doesn't even have the chance to reply before the dirty old windows above them crack with the intense pressure dropped as time and space bends into a hole, a portal, and two gods walk in. The air is drenched in old magic and static power, the pavement below shudders with the weight the otherworld beings carry when they walk.

One pink and another of mismatched colors.

Pink's eyes widen, dropping a heavy ax into the ground, dust kicking up at his feet. Eyes unseeing all but the trembling boy behind the godling. Tubbo gulps, because he doesn't know if he can protect Tommy against the War God.

And the world stops, just for a second, as the universe stops the vinyl of gravity when pale baby blue eyes meet red eyes for the first time in eons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in tears, shaking, and unable to think. I have been searching through decade-long youtube videos, hell even went on Reddit to seek the answers that I so desperately crave; HOW THE FUCK DO I USE WORK SKINS???? There isn't a dumbass waterdown, step by step tutorial for morons like me! I saw a fellow author use work skin and since I haven't gotten out of my fucking head. I am in Ty editor v3.6, trying to figure out the CSS and I understand CSS but what I don't fucking understand is how to make the pretty text show up??? Do I use copy and paste in the HTML format???? Do I sell my firstborn? I am too fucking dumb for this shit, and now I am searching through reddit looking for an answer for fuck's sake--
> 
> REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
> 
> Anyway, if anyone knows how to use work skins, it'll be greatly appreciated, tee hee!
> 
> EDIT: thank you for all the replies and the help! I still a moron so it takes a while for the knowledge to sink in! Thanks a lot and now you won't hear from me for the next three years, bye


	7. beneath their sunlit softness and rustling leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brother is alive. He's here and he's breathing. 
> 
> And - and he's _gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao imagine running away from gods into the sewers what a bunch of rat boys

6.

Tommy wants to crawl up the lap of Clara and pretend that this is all a bad, really fucking, weird dream. Or a nightmare.

The kind of nightmare that makes the pavement rocks float and the air taste heavy. He can sense something inside, old and primal, gagged by time, scream raw and shake his ribcage with vigor. There's something commanding him to pick himself up and run till his muscles tear and his lungs deflate. _Fear_ , he thinks, _what you are feeling_ _is what they call fear._

The core of his mind, a peanut size voice engrained deep in the steam of his cerebrum is yelling and screeching, _warning, run, hide_ , and all too many things that he doesn't want to touch. It's the way the wind is drenched in paralyzing fear, the way his calves turn heavy, and unable to lift himself from his half standing- half hunched position. 

"Tubbo." The edges of his vision blur, and maybe his left lung collapsed, because no matter how hard Tommy tries to inhale more oxygen he can't—

"Dad." Sharply inhaling, _breathe kiddo, it's alright_ , tears prick his eyes. Is this Tubbo's dad? A God? The static worms it's way into his ears, bleeding away the otherworldly voice as Tubbo places himself right in front of him. As if that's enough to shield him from his golden eyes, too sharp and knowing. Something is dripping. 

Then the earth shakes. The planet underneath his shoes groans, rocks shift, and the soil revolts as something in front of them begins to shift. Tubbo tenses, as if he wasn't tense enough, before people, _people?_ walks out from the literal air that has been split in the narrow alleyway. Where are the sounds of the car honks, the ambient sounds of the city? Is Tubbo speaking?

And then—

The biggest man Tommy has ever fucking seen, all muscle and intimidating height tower over them, and with him, the smell of iron rose, stabbing his nose, and his stomach immediately want to hurl. He thinks he's ill when God's eyes meet his.

( and the universe stops the vinyl of gravity )

The thing is this; humans and entities are never supposed to interact. The eyes are windows to the soul some would say, there's a horror when it comes to knowing something ancient shines bright in their eyes, and like the sun, you will burn and turn blind if you stare too long. Brittle bones hold hollow prayers, enteral skin glow with history's eyes, their blood is ichor and immortal. Choirs sing hymns and clenched their broken hands in prayer with mouths sewed shut with apathetic faith.

They don’t pretend piety and benevolence, they have no need to heed the world's law. Not like mortals do. 

Tommy's eyes meet blood-red eyes for the first time, and the heavy hand of gravity snakes its way to his shoulders, pulling him down. He's nine and some kid said something about God, and _he can't think straight. Where are they?_ As if his body knows to bow and kneel before his mind can catch itself in the hurling hurricane that is his thoughts. His knees don't bend, however.

_Tubbo._

He snaps himself out of that staring contest, he blinks, feeling the eyelid push down and meet the waiting skin and blink again. Tubbo with his hand on his wrist, gripping tight and not letting go. He can't really think, not when his thoughts are jelly, blurring any cohering sentence that tries to form any kind of sense of the madness and lunacy he's witnessing.

Someone keeps talking, and a hand reaches out.

There's a flash of bright light, Tommy is already twisting his head away from the blast, eyes screwed shut but it didn't do much as he can still see the supernova behind his red eyelids.

The hand on his wrist burns and is too heavy, chaining him from floating into his thoughts and dissolving like the sea foam on the beach. He tries to pay attention, Tommy honestly _tries_ with gritted teeth and stinging eyes, but the static buzzing under his skin is making it very fucking hard to concentrate. Tommy wants to hang on to his bedsheet, the hot gravel of the road is tearing up the soles of his feet, _it hurts_ biting his lips he wants to bust into crocodile tears, but then blue and red lights shine. Tommy blinks and a hand is gripping his wrists again, the static fades. He looks up—

 _What happened?_ He asks the nurse, and she smiles with her grey-blue eyes drawing a sad picture, and says, 

"Tommy," The nurse, _mom mom mom mom_ , fades and distorts in a sheen of lime green before a boy with a wobbly smile takes her place. Tubbo. Right. 

_Tubbo is his friend_ , Tommy inhales and the sharp smell of sea salt and tame sewer. They— they were in the back alley of the abandoned factory, Clementine was talking about how the city was going to tear it down soon to make way for new parking lots or something. He should have listened more. Now, they were on a beach? How did they get here?

"Tommy listen to me! We'll be alright— we, we just have to throw them off our trail, yeah? I can try to move us, but it's gonna be really dizzy and nauseating but _please_ hang on!"

Tommy wants to run the opposite fucking direction, scream, and rage, but all he manages is a dumb "huh?" before the world tilts, warping in bright light and for a second he swears he sees a flash of purple— 

Acid burns his pharynx, Tommy doubles over, knees scraping and tearing as he hurls his morning and recent dinner. Tears sting and this time he lets them fall from his red cheeks, he thinks he can hear Tubbo cough wetly, gasping, and unable to take a proper breath. He feels like static, tiny atomic pieces of himself are shuffling and bumping into each other, held together by the shape of his body. 

Tommy blinks away the tears in his eyes and comes face to face with a wall of concrete. He takes a wild look all around him, and yeah, they were in a tunnel. And the _smell._

_Wait. Are they-?_

"I'm so sorry." Warily, he cranks his neck to see where the broken voice came from. Tubbo is slumped up against the wall, head swaying and arms limp in between his legs. How did he get so far? His hair is now matted and knotted, and with a mighty push, Tommy stumbled into his feet. The world's axis tip-toed, and Tommy blinks away the discoloring around the edges of his vision before he too is slumped over next to Tubbo. 

He sighs, heavy and all from within his chest. The smell of rotten eggs and musty odors clog his nose. 

"I-I'm so fucking sorry, Tommy. I didn't- I didn't mean for this to happen, _I swear._ I just wanted you to be happy, I didn't- _I didn't mean to_. Sorry, I'm sorry." Tubbo wails, despite the low volume, his voice cracks and leaks of sorrow and regret. It takes him back when he found him in his swings, all dejected and small. 

"Is fine. I didn't mean the shit I said, 'lright? You- You're like family. I was just angry and shit." Tommy blows the hair out of his view, he really should have let Clementine cut it when she had offered. 

And now look at them, stuck in a godforsaken sewer, running away from literal _gods_. 

Tommy snaps his eyes wide open, _Clementine._ She was coming home early wasn't she? She said something about movie night and wanted to meet Tubbo after Tommy wouldn't stop babbling about him during breakfast. Was she home already? Did she come home thinking she was walking into open warms and expected guests? And what about Clara? Is she freaking out?

A hot wiring feeling warped around his throat, choking down any noises coming from his chest. The only thing Tommy can do is laugh. It’s a high, hysterical sound that starts with short, isolated chuckles and eventually dissolves into a full-on cackle. He’s is in a fucking sewer, a real-life fucking sewer, and he can't feel his face through his numb hands. _They're trembling,_ he realizes in a half-distant realization. Tommy is laughing until there are tears stinging his eyes, and a foul smell clogging his nose. 

A cold hand places itself in his shoulder, subduing the rising heat and panic. _Tubbo_ , and a wash of peace nulls the jittering in his hands.

"This is honestly so fucking disgusting that I might throw up again." Tubbo releases his own high pitch gargle, and when Tommy takes a side glance to his right, he's pale and jittery too. 

Here's the scene; they are slumped over the concrete wall with years worth of dust, mud, and trash glued to it, shoulder to shoulder. They are still holding on to each other like anchors to them that will save them from the storm inside their own heads. The ambient sounds of life are absent and dead. Tommy wonders if this is where his parents are gonna find his pale corpse, and Tubbo wonders if he can stop the earth from shattering under the heels of angry Gods. 

"They're probably gonna find us soon," Tubbo breaks the spell, stopping any static from forming in his ears. Yet, despite their close distance, Tommy is struggling to listen through his cotton stuffed ears.

"...oh." He isn't too sure how to react. Through the two weeks they have known each other, it almost feels like they have known each other since forever. Tubbo always tried to bring up the subject of Gods and Aether in between conversations. Tommy shut him down every single time, now he's starting to regret shutting him down so quickly. 

A beat of silence.

"Are they gonna hurt us?"

Tubbo whips his head at Tommy, more animated than he was a mere seconds ago. "No! No. . . They are just.. gonna be really, really mad." 

Tommy lets out a disbelieving, breathless laugh. "Well, that doesn't sound ominous at all."

 _Have no fear,_ Tubbo wants to say, _the stars have us in their gaze now; we are together, so we will survive._ But the meat of his tongue is too heavy to mold any kind of words that won't tumble out as gargles. So instead he pushes himself closer to him, knocking their knees together.

A purple mist starts to form a meter away from them, and Tubbo's hand snaps itself back into Tommy's hand. He looks down at the white knuckles and trembling digits. He squeezes back.

In front of them, a portal opens.

* * *

Techno's hands, still bloody but not drenched, _not yet,_ clench at his side. Years before you'll think back to the first time, about those screaming of his father and brother. About those bruised flowers and freckled gold dusted on the meadow. He thinks maybe his ribs are fracture by the way he struggles to breathe. He has only seconds, only seconds, but you use a precious few to wonder to the pale blue eyes that look too hauntingly familiar— 

He's right there, across the room. Beating. Breathing. _H_ _e's right there._

Techno only takes one step before Tubbo grasps Theseus's hand and disappears in a flash of a dead supernova. He blinks, the afterimage of his baby brother's face burn themselves into his iris, taunting him.

"RANBOO!" Technobalde, God of War and Blood, _shrieks_ out. Horror and desperation drip in his fangs now, with his hand still outstretched to where the godlings used to be. _Not again, please have some mercy._

The shadows rise in command, warping and hunting the light that radiates off Tubbo. Now, other gods and goddesses must have sensed the newly discovered light, trees shiver, lakes ripple and coming undone, the wind blows in a warning. Every little alarm in nature rings out, for the gods are coming and they will spill blood.

Shadows surround him, and the others behind him, as Techno, finds himself blinking into a beach. The waves trail the shore, reminding him of threads of Dream—pulled and floating, as if that foolish God had any control over anything. 

Two figures are huddled, one standing yet swaying in their feet, and the other is on their knees, trembling. 

If Techno could explain the overwhelming surge to Phil or Wilbur, he would try to squeeze it into words that were too inadequate, too incompetent for the swell that pushed against his ribcage. He takes another step forward, but yet again, like every cruel attempt, there's a supernova and emptiness. 

He doesn't have to beg before the shadows cover him one last time, this time there are 3.786 seconds longer. He blinks and can taste the rot in the air and the pollution in the water. The grime-covered walls rattle with their arrival, and this time there is no supernova waiting for them. Slumped by the most _disgusting_ wall he has ever seen, are the two missing Godlings. Techno can hear the palpable relief from Schlatt's sigh. 

Walking in a daze, whispers drown out the static as he steps closer to his breathing, _living_ brother than he has ever done in years. There's desperation connecting him to every being that begged and fought for survival, every essence that supported nourishment: a thread that came loose, family. 

Schlatt is as fast as he, stepping too close to Theseus that Technoblade's hair rises and he hisses in a warning. Schlatt doesn't heed it, preferring to bend down to grab both of Tubbo's forearms, hosting him up like a toddler. Their hands, so tightly wrapped, that Theseus arms rise with Tubbo, bringing his face upwards, exposing the same watery blue eyes that taunted him.

Techno's heart stops beating. Gods don't care for much, breathing aether not air, drinking ambrosia not water. Their blood is ichor and immortal, yet his heart hurts like it's mortal with each tear that falls from Theseus's face. 

"Theseus." 

His pale face swirls to meet Techno, Phil's blue eyes shine within him. He is still trembling, like a newborn fawn left in the forest, all too small for the darkness that surrounds them. And he's filthy; fingers coated in the same disgusting grime as the walls, knees on the floor as if he's some low beggar and the stains of mold on the side of his face from merely brushing against the brick walls is enough to stir something in the crevice of his chest.

Technoblade wants to push Theseus into a marble bathtub filled with rosewater and scented with floral notes and niche, to adore him in the royal robes of earthly kings. To lay in to rest in the bed of flawless sea pearls.

But for now, he needs his brother to be home, among the stars, and in his rightful place. 

Kneeling before the Godling, uncaring for the mold and grime, he sheds his robe dyed blood-red from so many countless missions ravaging the earth looking for the boy, now trembling and pale before him. Carefully, he brings himself to the same eye level, _he's too small, too mortal,_ but he grounds himself with each flinch the boy made. 

"Hello, little brother. I've come to take you home." 

And finally, the world started spinning right once again.

* * *

“I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“Did you mean for me to find out at all?”

He isn’t calm. There’s a sharp edge to his voice but he takes a deep breath and sits down on a chair. The air is still chilly, you realize, not that the barred window allowed anything to come through. Tubbo sits on the edge of his childhood bed, legs dangling.

“I was going to tell you once I found Theseus,” He mumbles, staring at the line where the wall meets the ceiling. “I just wanted to— to find him. Not to cause any pain."

Schlatt is quiet.

Tubbo has seen too many sides of the same coin when it comes to his father, the facade that he plays for the crowd, the Gods, and to himself. But not once was Schlatt this quiet. A bubble of anxiety tightens his throat. 

Schlatt sighs, his hand dragging down his face, looking like he aged a decade. 

"Do you even realize what you have **done?** " Tubbo almost, _almost_ , bust undone right there and then. The clear hysteria painting his voice, the way the walls shook with the minor leak of power that coated his words. A blue china vase cracks. He wants to scream raw in apology, tears rolling down his throat and claw at his heart for a justification. 

He doesn't do that, England taught him more than the books of the Library ever had. So instead he opts to whisper a plea;

"I brought Theseus home. And I would've done it again."

Silence is his reward for his hubris, before Schlatt storms out, crashing the door slammed shut. 

Tubbo closes his eyes and prays to the cosmos that Tommy is alright.

* * *

She closes the door as softly as she can, mutely noting on the mess of the sheets and the trash piling up. She needs to clean up, doesn't she? Huffing, she turns back to the hallway and down the same old stairs that dented with time and memories. There's the dent from the time Tommy when he brought the football into the house, somehow managing to get it stuck in the corner of the ceiling. A proud accomplishment for any ten-year-old.

Clementine could only stay mad for so long before Clara had busted out laughing. Tommy bought that as a sign to be even more energized, like a ball of the sun compressed too tightly and needed an outlet for all that restless energy. It shined in his laughter and in his shouts, it radiated in his smiles and hugs.

He "kicked ass" in soccer, coming out with a chipped tooth and a bright smile after practice. He rambled about the other boys and the coach with too much beard, making him look like a "wronging" he says. 

There's too much of Tommy in this house that she cannot walk five steps before bumping into something. A picture hung in the wall, the little boy standing too upright, and his face closed off, yet his tiny fist clenched tightly around the young nurse in the photo. She remembers that. He was so quiet back then, always walking in the shadows and eyes flickering to the ceiling and windows. 

The house is too quiet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, y'all know Fwhip right? Underrated Minecraft YouTuber who makes amazing builds right? Okay, he had this series called x-life and had this Mediterranian style base and I am in love. That base is so freaking cool, and I remember watching almost die to an alligator, which was very funny, but anyway what I wanted to say was that Tommy's childhood home was inspired and kinda ripped off that because I just really like his builds. Also, thank you so freaking much for all the comments on the last chapter and all the tips for the work skin!!!! It saved my ass!
> 
> anyway, want more chapters? You fuckers better be dropping comments or I'll be dropping hands  
> (`⌒*)O-(`⌒´Q)


	8. i used to tremble as sunlight ran down my skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His tiny mortal brother. What a strange concept, he huffs, well it matters not. He will still glitter him in the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> techno really went (￣(00)￣) to ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´(00)`ﾟ)ﾟ｡

7.

The God  _ kneeled _ in the molded bricks and mud-covered concrete, in front of Tommy like he's the one being worshipped. Now, Tommy doesn't know much about religion, but don't Gods usually stand above the mortals and bicker, and like,  _ not _ kneel? Something about this scene is rubbing him the wrong way, not just being in a literal sewer. 

Actually, it's not like Tommy can do anything but nitpick at what his wandering eyes pick up from the corners of his vision. Looking everywhere and anywhere but the Holy being kneeling in front of him.

A scarred hand pushed itself into his vision, and Tommy back paddled into the wall, furthering dirtying his shirt. He didn't care if he looks like a coward, flinching and curling around himself as if its enough to hide him from the gaze of immortal beings that bleed ichor. Static, all fine-tuned to the specific wave to worm its way to his thoughts, smudges the sharp edges of his vision. Not that he can see much, to begin with.

Maybe he can even hear Tubbo, all loud and chaotic, but he—  _ he can't.  _

The buzzing only gets louder as the hand approaches Tommy, closer and closer. He needs to get out, _ out now! _ Distantly he can taste the cotton that made his tongue, the distance savagery that Tubbo's vibrating, snarling and twisting from another God's grasp but unable to. He thinks he's shouting his name. It's kind of cruel, knowing what he needs to do but unable to even lift himself off the filthy floor. 

The hand is too close, _ too close, oh God too  _ **_close—_ **

He clenches his eyes shut, shoulders rising to meet and defend, and Tommy holds his breath. He burns his lungs, blessing each moment he ever had of his family, wishing that he's somewhere with Clara and Clementine, laughing and loving together. 

The warm hand settles on his jaw, fingers delicately intertwined in his hair, and thumb softly resting on his cheek. 

He opens his eyes half-lidded as if he isn't being brushed by death, only to accidentally make eye contact with the being. Lungs screech to a halt, his mouth is already dry as it is, but the air is sucked out of the room. He whimpers.  _ Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom. _

The warm hand never leaves his jaw.

"Come, it's time to bring you back where you belong."

Technoblade knew of mortal lives, cursed and doomed to just short lives. They acted as if love could be given alongside worship, their hearts were poison, festering until no vein was safe. He knew this. Technoblade shed no tears for the suitors that planted blood at his feet. Yet when he raises his hand, the same that slaughtered and smother, seeing his tiny  _ mortal _ brother flinch, there's a part of himself that withered. 

A realization, like his raised hand, colossal apex swinging towards a debutant.

_ Trust me, _ he pleas, _ trust me with the ugliness, the mass devastation mortals life by. _ He holds his fragile brother, who looks at him with fear, a blood-soaked nightmare. Technoblade is no fool, he knows that pain would come after him like rabid dogs, knew his heart would break and spill ichor, but he would do this. This must be what the love Phil must've felt, unforgiving kindness that would forever be hunted down and ripped to shred _. _

_ For him, I will do this. _

"Little Theseus, c'mon, up you go." 

"Leave Tommy alone! Technoblade please!" Tubbo, even with Schlatt dragging him down the tunnel and standing next to Ranboo is kicking away Schlatt's hold. Despite his bravado and the shouts, cracks reveal the tearful eyes and scared quiver in his lip. Schlatt for his part just sighed, rolling his tired eyes, and dragged him closer to him. 

Tommy? What an insult. Techno ignored the screeching Godling, taking the edges of his cape and enveloped Theseus in it. Theseus is deadly still, even the trembling has subsided, leaving just the pale figure with shallow breaths. Carefully he started to pick him up, each touch making the poor boy jump. It wasn't until he was carefully tucked and sheltered in his arms that the swell in his chest allowed for easy breathing.

_ Phil _ , Techno calls out into the link that travels through worlds and dimensions, and he can sense the lonely god tilting his head to better listen. Technoblade prays for mercy for those around the lone God when he calls out, _ Phil I found him. I found Theseus. _ He senses the clouds and winds shift and the oceans sway. The tranquility it all held shattered as the winds hollowed and the clouds darkened, oceans stirred and shook. The God heard him then, as he walked closer to Schlatt and Ranboo, Theseus just tucked his face into the robe. His heart stuttered. 

Ranboo nods, his jaw still locked, merely brought the shadow around them one last time. Techno clutched Theseus closer to his chest, the boy spammed and twitched. When the darkness lifted, sunset had already taken hold in Aether. Sharp mountains were the horizon, where twinkling stars danced in the backdrop of colorful galaxies. Their childhood home sat at the peak, marble white stairs beginning in front of them. Wilbur's constellation shines bright in greeting.

The clouds and breezes shift at the peak of the day and the grass, the trees, the flowers they all sway. The palace protected by raging winds far stronger than he, winds powered by Phil's wings. If Techno focuses hard enough, he can hear a lyre play with a melodic voice, weaving tales of Aethers anew. The God of Music used to treasure every story that is weaved, but Techno remembers such moments in a different light: the strum of the strings and the lilt of Wilbur carry with it a hint of serenades. Back when Theseus was still in their sight.

Now, maybe Techno can start to hear melodies fill the air once more.

The cosmos shifted to hold the trio in their gazes, and Techno watches as Ranboo almost collapsed in exhaustion. Techno felt a ping of sympathy, his own legs ache from the nonstop searching. The world is bent and twisting in preparation for all the Gods and Goddesses returning back home, their powers suffocating the air and their presence moving planets axis. They are like a bulldozer, crushing atoms and scattering molecules in their path to be here faster.

Perhaps can also sense the arrival of the Godlings, a new lingering light that is now wrapped around Techno's cape. 

"Techno!" Wilbur shouted from above, the marble stairs withstanding the sheer force of Wilbur's strides as he climbed far too fast for Techno's liking. He spotted Schlatt, and despite their semi-roky relationship, he seemed relieved to see him with Tubbo. The bastard was a thorn in everyone's side without Tubbo.

Wilbur took three steps before he noticed Techno's cape wrapped around someone. He stumbled, bracing himself as he took a glance at the buddle and back at him with a raised eyebrow in question. Techno opened his mouth, ready to announce **_—_ **

"Look, thanks for all the help and all," Schlatt stepped in, interrupting him, with a still struggling and pale Tubbo dragging behind him, "But I know this is gonna take a while, so we're gonna dip."

Tubbo's eyes widen, horror painting his face. Wilbur made a confused noise from the back of his throat, not once seeing the Godling so frightened. 

"Wait! Please don't! He's a mortal, Tommy **_—_ ** he needs me! Dad, please!"  _ Mortal?  _ Wilbur mouthed, and Techno could only sigh. The moment was spoiled, this isn't exactly what Technoblade had pictured to introduce Theseus back into Aether. Ranboo shuffled awkwardly, standing on the other side of the still struggling Tubbo. Speaking of which, he looks awful, dirty and his hair matted. It was a sharp contrast to what he remembered him by just a mere two weeks ago. 

"Let's go man." Schlatt gestured, not bothering to stop the spluttering Tubbo and there's one final push before a bright light overcame the hills. And they were gone. Ranboo and Schlatt were most likely gonna give the poor kid the hardest beat down of his life.

"Techno, what the hell? When did Tubbo **_—_ ** "

"I found Theseus." Techno cut off Wilbur's rant, speaking Theseus name with such eloquence of his name, a beautiful kind, as he unwraps his cloak revealing **_—_ **

a pale face and blue lips.

Wilbur shrieks, shattering windows and splitting the wind in half. Buddled in Techno's arm is little Theseus, with shallow breaths and bulging eyes with weak fingers grasping the air. _Mortal,_ something echoed. _He's a mortal_ _and you are killing him_. Time _ran_ , echoes of storm clouds are in his throat are now dry and closed off, colors blur as he flinches back. Panic set in. _Wilbur, Wilbur will know what to do._

When Techno looks up he finds Wilbur scrambling back from Techno, arms flailing and shoulders rising as he shrieks in panic. Frantically, Technoblade pushed Theseus back into God's light and grace, to breathe some life into his weak lungs, made of flesh and iron instead of the ichor and porcelain. 

But all that crescendo to a weak stutter and a gasp of life before he's back to struggling to breathe. 

_ "Phil!" _ Wilbur's voice echoed through the palace, leaking of power and desperation to make it across dimensions.  _ "Phil! Help!" _

That's when Techno can feel it in his throat: the storm, looming. The calm drowning itself, hauntingly, beckoning as it draws near. He blinks once, and Phil's portal is ripping a new one on the reality's sheet, dividing dimensions and the void. George isn't going to like that, he distantly thinks. 

It's his green robes that make it through first, as the uncharted dimension leaks out of the portal with wisps of magic and sickness. Then it's just Phil, God of Survival, and father to three. Phil's grey eyes, heavy and sharp, take one look into Techno's arms and the air suddenly turns heavy. It settles like dust in the walls of his lungs, with a mental ting to the tongue, all too common in mortal's realms. 

It makes it hard to sniff anything, clogging his nose to an uncomfortable degree. 

But little Theseus is gasping now, taking a chest full of deep, desperate breaths. Color slowly paints back into his lips and cheeks to his relief. The heaviness that poured into his chest and ribs, that seemly solidified, is now lifted with each breath the boy cradled in his arms.

"Technoblade."

Phil is harsh because that's what he needs to be. That's what he's meant to be. He is the God of Survival, protecting, and nurturing, he is the one that broken men knee-deep in blood, mud, and shit pray to. He's the god of the betrayers, those willing to do anything to survive. He doesn't need morals nor the equilibrium of time to tip the balance of his realm. It's ironic to think he's also the God of Death.

For this reason, they ask one day, to the foolish mortals spilling blood, why they praise Survival when they are worshiping Death. What do they expect? It's the burden that he carries, constraints of those who are held down by prayers and tragedies.

Survival only knows harshness. And they cried to the winds without restraints, for not once will they be able to give the people that so desperately long for their blessings. Death has made him kind, to end suffering and make peaceful transactions. That's why he raised a bubble of air around the mortal carried in Techno's arms. Buddlend in Techno's robes, dyed and never leaving his own shoulders despite his brother's protests.

Yet, he has a  _ mortal _ wrapped around it.

"What the _ hell _ is going on?" Phil notes Wilbur **_—_ ** pale and shaky, flinching and watching the mortal in Techno's arms with wide eyes echoing of youth.

Survival is harsh and unrelenting, and should always be moving. Maybe that's why he stalked towards the unmoving pair with a snarl and a temper in his eyes. Tubbo has been found, he senses the fawn light tucked away in his father's palace. Why does Technoblade, of all people, have a mortal with him?

( That's the crux of the matter, ain't it? Tubbo has been  _ found _ , and he is safe and sound. He is in his father's arms and watched by all the other gods and goddesses of Aether. He is alive. )

But when he draws near, Techno flinches bringing the mortal closer to his chest. This gave him a pause and for this reason, he calms himself to take a proper look at the mortal cradled in his arms.

Pale blond hair shined under the dying sunset's rays, with shaky breathing rattling the air. Fingers weakly clutching Techno's shirt.

The thing with Death is no matter where and when the souls imprinted in the world, Philza is the one to feel them sweep out of their mortal shell and back to the cosmos. This gave him the ability to see where life's brushes painted the mortal. To see how it shined and how it dimmed. But when he peers down the arms of Techno, he sees a dying light with echoes of divinity.

He sees the shape of his lips, and the chin, and the eyebrows, and the closed eyes. He sees, but he cannot comprehend what he is seeing. Phil breathes and it rattles, he blinks and the dying mortal is still in Techno's arms, the God of War and Blood who would never let a mere mortal touch him, much less willingly carry one.

Phil blinks and it takes him back to the spring day with blooming flowers and bright sunshine.

"Is that...?" _Don't you fucking dare,_ he snarls at himself. _Don't lower yourself to such a simple concept as_ ** _hope_** _._ Phil slowly looks up at Technoblade's face. _Don't you fucking dare, don't you remember how hope kills? How it deteriorate even the mighty gods?_ Techno is blinking away tears and sucking on his lip, his chin trembling. _Don't do this to_ _me, I beg of you. Hope is what kills God._

"Phil, I found Theseus." Behind him, Wilbur lets out a strangled sob. 

Philza so very slowly turns to the mortal **_—_ ** to Theseus. His face is marred by life and age, acne scars coming from the awkward phase of mortals, and imperfect discoloring to the skin. He notes the low-quality clothes that clung to his frame, views the lanky limbs cradle themselves as if to protect him as he sleeps. His son. Jarring reds and sunshine yellows, to the pink tones of his skin, Phil drank it all. 

The sob comes out unexpectedly. He clutches his mouth, fingers digging into his cheeks and jaw, the vile swimming in the back of his throat. The violent realization slammed into his gut, knocking the wind out of his lungs and collapsing into himself.  _ His son _ . His son with toothpick bones and cotton flesh, who could so easily be crushed beneath his heel. 

His youngest son is a twin sun with the skin of a boy, whose sun's rays reflect off of and the sky nothing but mirrors that rested in the jewels of his eyes. 

"Tech— Explain,  _ now."  _

"Tubbo found him," Technoblade rushes, "I don't know how long he has known for, but we found them in the northern region of Earth." Phil breathes, and with the ghost exhale, the winds pick up. The winds understand the insanity of being, to be the same force made to be unmoving and unrelenting. Tubbo. That stupid, arrogant little boy. 

"But— I don't understand. Tubbo always tried to look for Theseus, but  _ we _ searched Earth. And we found  _ nothing. _ " Wilbur stepped forward, his croaks coming from a raw throat after sobbing. He stood next to Phil with an unsteady stance, eyes still tracing the outline of the sleeping boy in Techno's arms. 

Philza can hear the subtle question marrying underneath his words. How could Tubbo find Theseus when they couldn't? Was their bond of only a few months far stronger than theirs? More powerful than his own blood?

But instead, he shakes those thoughts away like a dog with water, but the doubts and emotions are magnetized and come back, whispering behind his ear lobe. Schlatt has a lot to answer for in his ward's steed. For now, let's focus on the now. 

Phil steps forward, smile slowly carving his face as he opens his arms to receive little Theseus. It's mirroring the same event on that spring day, when he opened his arms and light poured into his arms, personifying to a baby boy. But Technoblade still holds into the lanky limbs, and Phil frowns once before Techno sighs in defeat. 

Oh so slowly, Techno fondly places Theseus back into Phil's arms, like a prophet receiving the told word, and Phil basks in the warmth his arms hold. The warmth itself is enough to have him staggering, the weight grounds him, to have his arms hold something real and alive. He takes a look down at his arms and sees the same baby he held that spring day.

"Oh, Theseus," Wilbur whispers over Phil's shoulder, eyes glistering and cheeks redding. 

Maybe when the sunset finally dies over the hill, Phil ignores the pleads of mortals and prayers, the foolish mortals spilling blood, why they praise Survival when they are worshiping Death.

He lets the constraints of those who are held down by prayers and tragedies be carried away with the same rhythm of Theseus's easy breathing. Phil doesn't pay any attention to the hovering twins, rather walking up the steps. He justles Theseus as he misses a step, both Wilbur and Technoblade stepping forward as if Phil was gonna drop him. He bites down hard on his tongue, thinking he would do the same thing.

Phil would rather spit out a carcass of dusk than let go of the boy in his arms. The marble steps shone the tall, arch doors open with a flick of a wrist. The open space welcomed them with open arms, the white halls becoming lively after the presence of three gods walking through the halls once again. The ghosts in the walls of past echoes of a better time crumble with a ghostly sigh. 

Wilbur opened a door, stepping aside for Phil and Techno to walk in, it takes Phil a moment to remember this room. With a deep sigh, he walks in with the sleeping boy, thinking of the false prayers and a small boy with the sun in his smile. Fondly, Phil placed Theseus in a chaise lounge, safe and sound in the walls of their home once again. It burns, almost, seeing the flickering eyes and listening to the soft snores as Theseus  _ snuggles _ into the soft blankets. It burns and peels, like a banished soul, and he carries it.

Phil buries it beneath his spine until his back has become a living headstone for the missing Godling. Techno is still like the gargoyles in the churches that spill blood in his name, eyes never straining away from the sleeping boy. Wilbur on the opposite side of Techno, at the foot of the lounge, guarding for any shadows. 

It's surreal, fanatical dangerous because this scene is too familiar in Phil's eyes. These fantasies always end with Theseus staying. Here in the cycles of his mind, his heart can afford to break itself apart, over and over. Here, he never had to let him go. Here, his love for the godling always outweighs the heartbreak. But it always ended the same, with a blink of an eye and he found himself still alive, here, with no godling. 

But now.

Phil doesn't need a prophet to know his path will end in heartbreak. His love, those fantasies — they always end with Phil waking up from his daydreams. This is no fantasy, not the way Techno sways on his feet from the exhaustion of two weeks of non stop searching as done to him, there is no fantasy in Wilbur's dark eyes whenever he is stuck in his mind.

What a scene —mighty gods of the past and present, grounded by a mere mortal: a hurtful father, a forsaken son, and a mad brother. And in the eye of the hurricane is little Theseus, sleeping soundly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working overtime to bring you this fluff before I snatch it away
> 
> shoutout to my guy MinRosie


	9. A Mother's sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world caved in the moment her baby ran out the door with a nervous laugh and a false promise of coming back. She tries to cope with it. 
> 
> Keyword; tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The parallels are so strong its like my parallel parking

II.

Clara & Clementine 

The world caved in the moment her baby ran out the door with a nervous laugh and a false promise of coming back. His shiny smile plastered too quickly and a bit crooked as he shouted reassurances behind him, the other boy— Tubbo— didn't even spare her a second glance before they bolted out the door. The world didn't fall silent or still, the neighborhood's ambient sounds still sounded and the night still turned. 

But that didn't stop her from sitting on a stool in front of her door, hand clutching her phone and ready to spring into action as the door knob turned. 

It never did. 

The test of patience was lost in just two hours, the dark was already settled and with each tick of the clock her heart sank. She called the police, her lungs ripping themselves as she struggled to push coherent words out to the poor operator. The police arrived with red and blue lights in under twenty minutes, ready to take in her side of the story. Clara merely hoped, thought, that they were just going out to get something. Anything to justify the blurs of colors as they fled from her home.

Despite their questions, the reassurances, she can see it in their eyes. The side glances, the tight lines of their lips. 

"My son did  _ not _ run away." A mother's anger is not like how they describe in fables or songs. There's a sting of the wet eyes, her voice shook but it rose with the injection of hate in her chest. It bloomed like a wilted flower, taking the place in the cracks of her heart, the anger. It's the blur at the edges of her vision and the way colors lost its edge. 

There's also a sort of clarity that comes with such anger. Her mumbled thoughts left behind her son's wild disappearance ironed out with narrowed precision as she let out every single detail needed in shocking precision. But this can only hold on for so long before it gets knocked down by the gentlest of blows.

It's all made worse when Clementine comes home. She's sweaty, panting, and dark makeup is smudge in the corners of her puffy eyes. It cracks her chest and she lets out a guttural, primal sob, a scream, a plea for her child to come back into her arms. She collapses in the middle of her living room, with policemen and the love of her life cradling her. 

_ Where is her baby? _

Clementine demands and rages at the police officers,  _ do your fucking job and find my son! _ Some leave, but they all reassure them that they are doing everything they can with the information that they have. Clara has seen the documentaries, has heard the stories and she cannot look at a clock without throwing up.

Clara passes out on the sofa, numb and her lips tingling as the last of the police leaves her home. By now, all of the neighborhood must have heard what happened. Police said their taking witnesses accounts, and reassurance thrown in the wind. She's numb, but no matter how much she closes her eyes and tries to play pretend, there's no denying what she's living.

It’s that gaping hole in her chest that just spells sadness. It's a sound that rattles in her ribcage and hollow spine from things clawing out in a violent desperation to find her missing son. Her thoughts are being spilled over from the bowl of her mind into her laps and elsewhere, trying and failing to gather them up. They are slick and slip rights through her fingers, as they are twisting and turning, her hope and longing sinking into the deepest part of the ocean, sitting there, not forgotten but misplaced; _ you can’t find him!  _ Something wild, and old hollows.  _ Where is her son? _

A warm palm settles in her cheek, breathing a carefree caress through her hair, whispering apologies and excuses. It's easy to try and blame Clementine for coming home late, her heart weighing her down to a crawl, not fast enough to see her son one last time. It's so  _ easy _ , like a push of a button, to explode into spitting rage, to curse her for not coming home, always being late, as if she was here then nothing of this would have ever happened. 

But how can she?

Clara did jack shit, she wasn't fast enough to grip into the hurricane of her son, she wasn't loud enough to stop them with her words, she was too slow. Too fucking slow. She closes her eyes, the vivid colors of red, white and khaki brown blur before he's gone.

And that's the last she saw of him. 

She didn't even get to say goodbye. Take care. Please come home.

Clementine just cuddles right next to her, squished together without any space to spare. Clara knows she's hurting, knows she's blaming herself yet all she can muster is a soft sigh. Regret is sticky-sweet, but her tears still taste salty as she hangs in this moment suspended in time. But for now, she closes her eyes and tries to sleep.

She dreams of her baby. When he only reached her waist, so incredibly tiny and small and too precious. She broke into sobs in the picture still moment, gathering all the lanky little limbs into her chest mumbling sorry over and over again in a treacherous loop. He's the apple in her eye, that little boy in her mind. All he has to his name is a bloody sheet and a faraway look that looks too ancient for such a young face.

Yet when Clementine, exhausted and anxious, brought home a picture of pouting lips and fawn eyes, Clara took that as an insignia spelling future heartbreak with his name written all over it. It took weeks of work, cleaning up, interviews and one day their little home of two turned to three. Her baby was too silent, too observant, and unnatural. To be perfectly honest, it gave her the creeps.

It was like he was learning everything from scratch, she remembers being criss crossed in the floor as she taught him his new name. Tommy. There was a spark in his eyes, one of self awareness and her chest lifted with her smile. He struggled to smile, she thinks back, practicing in the mirror when he thought she wasn't looking. So she sang to him to sleep, dotted him with each new word learned, and danced with him in the kitchen under the yellow tint of the morning. 

And when he laughed for the first time, it sounded like bell chimes and spring love. 

_ — like rust, lingering over their rose gold lips, and he learns what love is. _

When she wakes with tired eyes, his wind chime laugh echoes in her hollow ears. In the morning’s light, his warm form fades into a distant memory, uncommitted self comes back into life. The not ghost that danced with her in the kitchen retreats back into the shadows, the flesh much worse, much colder than  _ you  _ could ever be, so much farther away than  _ you  _ are in her dreams. Clementine is already up, busy with her face stuck to her laptop, clicking and typing away. Clara drags herself up with a spirit made of broken fingers and blistered hands.

Wonder if this hollow feeling will end up consuming her whole, maybe she hopes that it does. Clara can still feel the warm left behind of the impression of her son.

Clementine walks by, stopping at the edge with her phone at her ear. She looks worse than ever, her hair all messed up and her eyes far more exhausted than she has ever seen. She dips down for a kiss, so close she can smell yesterday's perfume and morning breath, yet Clara turns her head. 

There's a pause, a fragile moment suspended in time that if you listen close enough you can hear the realization flicker in her head. So, Clementine opts for a soft, hesitant, kiss on top of her head, before she's gone faster than she came.

Birds sing outside, chirping for ghosts of a better time. Clara wonders how the world is still turning, when realistically she knows that more than thousands children go missing and almost 98 percent come back with no harm done. Yet, morning comes and her son is still not home. 

Clara doesn't want to go upstairs to her bedroom, where petrichor perfume entwines in the air and outside the window the trees are aflame with sweet, warm fall of a better time. 

So, all she does that morning is cradle a cold cup of coffee as she tries to contain the tears at bay. The kitchen is grey and too silent, Tommy would have come down by now, wouldn't he? 

She swallows thickly, he would have been stretching and yawning and said a sleepy  _ good morning mum _ , before she passed him his breakfast. She grips the cup of cold coffee a little tighter, until she can feel the muscle strain and hear the crack of her joints. Where is her son? Why were they running? Who the fuck is Tubbo, and where did he take her son?!

Clara looks down at her reflection on the dark coffee with no sugar. She looks at her waving form, blinks until it becomes unrecognizable and right there she nods to herself. She will look for Tommy herself, she will roam the streets, posters at every corner and shake every breathing person in the street for answers to find her son. She lifts the cup to her chapped lips and drowns down the cold coffee.

It's bitter.

It's been two weeks, Clementine thinks, two weeks and the police have found shit. 

Grief is a monster made of stomachs. Bottomless and always so hungry. It wants and it needs and it takes and  _ takes and takes and takes  _ and you’d think it feeds until it’s satisfying. It creeps and crawls and settles its fingers in her ribcage and wiggles its finger for an invitation to be let in. To crawl its way inside, to scoop dahlias out of her throat.

All she can do is hum hymns and play pretend with Clara. There are some good days, when they would sit together and eat in silence, or they would sleep together and hold tight the whole night. Then there are more bad days, when Clara is too silent and would snap and shout, when they can barely look at each other and would sleep in separate rooms. 

There's an ocean being created with the salty tears of her lover, and there's not much she can do. All she can do is offer a helping hand when plastering the missing person's posters, sit close in the silent nights, and remind Clara that she is human too, and she needs as much sleep as the next person. It's the hollow eyes, and grim smile that makes her stumble and lose her breath. Where did her life become so crooked? 

When did her love start to speak less, eat less, become nothing but a repeating phone of "have you seen my son?''. Clementine looks at the cold halls, looks at the empty rooms, and holds together with the barest strings of willpower against becoming undone. 

"Clara? My love? I'm going to get an errant, I'll come home soon, alright?" Her voice came out weaker than she had intended, shaking and stuttering. How can she be strong when she's standing in the doorway of a black hole? Shared grief is still locked away in the same child's room as it's simply too heavy to bear witness to. Clementine doesn't want to look at the empty bedroom, the black hole sucking all the gravity of a conversation, like a beast watching them walk by. A tender moment burned to ashes. A child playing peek-a-boo, egging her to come in.

She turns away before she does something she'll regret. 

Marching out the door, she doesn't want to acknowledge the neighbour's pitying eyes, the sorry whispers, or the mournful looks. Clementine, instead, opens her phone and rings a number she hasn't touched in years. 

It rings, and she walks down the same sidewalk her son has, and if she squints hard enough, she can see his ghost. 

It rings, and—  _ "Hello?" _

Her breathing squeezes tight, tying a knot in her tongue as she coughs in her mouth. "Uh, hello Sam, It's Clementine. Sorry for calling so early, I need your help with something.

Silence.

_ "...Alright, I'll be coming over then."  _

Clementine sighs with heavy relief, her trembling hand shoved into her pocket now slightly subsited. 

"Uh, actually, think we can meet up at your cafe? I'll message you the details, but please do hurry."

_ ".... Very well, I'll see you soon." _ And the conversation ends with a click. If this were another person, maybe she would have raged. But anger bleeds out faster than any wound, made worse as she tries to walk faster to the same restaurant she met the odd man. And when she did walk through the window doors, the air smell stale and the gloomy atmosphere turned suffocating. 

"Clementine." Even after all these years, she can never figure out how he does that. She turns, and a too tall man, hunched shoulders and smiles too soft for his face waves at her. Her mother always used to say that _ he just knows darling, don't think too hard on it.  _

"'ello Sam, I'm sorry for pulling you like this." He tilts his head, offering her the seat across him. She sits with a huff, next to the window in the almost deselant cafe. If this were another time in another place, Clementine would have been running, screaming bloody murder. But, in another time she would have had a son to come home to. 

"I'm calling in the favor." Her words rang true, strong and unwavering. _ For her son _ . Sam froze, his hand in mid motion to pick up a brewing cup of tea. His gaze never leaves her, and if she's completely honest with herself, that intense gaze always made her hair stand up at the nape of her neck. The air became freezing, just for a split second before everything turned back to normal. She can hear her heart thumping away in her ears.  _ For her son.  _

"Oh? Have you discussed this with your family?" Family? She scoffs. That superstitious, matriarchy can suck her ass. "Aren't I the firstborn of the firstborn? Or some shit like that? I'm the one who gets the final say."

Sam kept quiet for a second, before cautiously continuing. "Yes, you are. Your family has used the threat of using my favor before, yet you're the first to come to me first." Sam tilts his head again, his soft spoken demeanor almost looks... sad. 

"You will be hunted." 

"Don't really care, mate."

Sam locks her in his gaze, but Clementine wasn't raised by cowards and raised her chin to lock gazes right back. Sam huffed. "Very well, what is it that you want?"

Clementine grinds her teeth, becoming hyper to her chewed fingernails, blemished skin and unruly eyebrows. She looks like a mess, and here she is, going to doom herself to a life of constant vigilance and catution.  _ For her son. _

"I want you to find my son and bring him back home, _ alive _ ." Sam nods, offering his hand in the space between them. Slowly, she raises her hand as well. Her mother always used to say that no matter what, one must never invoke the favor of the family, the one thing that tied them to a higher plane. When their hands shook, a spark of electricity spizzled and died in the air that now seemed so alive with something worldly. 

Thousands of meters, in different countries and languages, the chain of a god fell free and the air magic fell away.

"Tell me about your son." Clementine almost burst into tears, her mother's words ringing in her cotton stuffed head.  _ For her son _ . She inhales wetly, her lungs are burning, but she holds steady. Her mother would have been screeching like a banshee at this point, but the dead can speak. 

_ Sorry mom, but I just love my son a little bit more than some old family curse. _

"His name is Tommy, Tommy Innit. He made friends with a boy, Tubbo, two weeks ago. We were supposed to be having dinner one night, when I think they were arguing about something, when they suddenly out the door. But— Tommy didn't have his phone, or wallet, fuck, not even a proper fucking coat!" Clementine seethes, baring her teeth at the last word. Clara looked so robotic, answering the police's questions and giving them such vivid descriptions before she collapsed and sobbed on the floor. 

"I see. You named him Innit? He would have inherited the favor then." Clementine gives Sam a flat look. 

"He doesn't know, neither does Clara. And they won't know, since there's no favor to inherit. Just— Just bring back my son." She warily lets her head fall into her open palms, fingers running through messy hair that hasn't been properly combed in days. She needs to come home soon, trying not to give Clara any worry.

"Very well, I shall— wait. What was the name of the other boy?" Tirely, Clementine looks at Sam with a curious tick in her eye. Sam is halfway out of his seat, still staring at her soul with that intense look, speaking in an incredulous tone. 

She sighs, "Tubbo. His name is Tubbo." 

Sam looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes and lets out a very quiet _ fuck _ . But in the deselant cafe, Clementine hears him as clear as day. A shot of panic, anger,  _ something _ , shoots right through her chest and through the cobwebs that entangled her the past two weeks. 

"What? What is it? Do you know Tubbo? Do you know where he is?" She shoots to her feet, lightheaded and eyes focused on the prize. Sam knows something! A missing puzzle piece to make the picture and bring her baby back home. But what stops her, what freezes her in her place, is the sad look in Sam's face. 

A gut wrenching feeling opens her stomach. 

"Yes. I do know where Tubbo is, but I don't know if I can even get close to him." She blinks. 

"Huh?! What is that supposed to mean? Sam— Sam, answer me! Do you know where Tommy is?" Clementine knows she looks desperate, her hands clinging to each other as she leans over the small tablet separating them. 

Sam takes a quick look at her state, and shakes his head. "Maybe, but even if he's where I think he is, it'll be next to impossible to get him if I'm right." 

There's a pit of despair in her throat that sucks any words and moisture from her mouth. The one shot of getting her son back, and he's telling her that it'll be impossible? Him? Sam, the all knowing bastard?

Oh, so quietly, she whispered, "The favor. Sam, for fuck's sake, what about the favor?"  _ Please tell me I didn't waste it for nothing.  _

Sam at least has the decency to look somewhat ashamed, shuffling his feet. "I will do everything I can to bring your son home, it'll be difficult. I need to gather information first." He stands fully, his shoulders no longer hunched and friendly. Her neck hurts from just staring up at him. He looks tired. 

"I— I don't know when I'll come back, but I need to get back into contact with some old friends. For now, rest and take care." With that, in a blink, he's gone. The ambient sounds return, the heaviness of the atmosphere is lifted and all she can do is gasp for breaths.

_ For her son _ . She tells herself,  _ for her son. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's some ~lore~ and some "comfort" for you gremlins

**Author's Note:**

> drop a kudos or i drop you


End file.
